Only He Saw
by obsessedbutonline
Summary: When the pack stopped telling him about meetings, Stiles laughed. It wasn't surprising that they forgot to update his number when their phones kept getting destroyed by the monster of the week...right? They just forgot. That happened. All the time! Too often.
1. You're Out

Chapter One

When the pack stopped telling him about meetings, Stiles laughed. It wasn't surprising that they forgot to update his number when their phones kept getting destroyed by the monster of the week...right? They just forgot. That happened. All the time! Too often. When the pack stopped giving excuses for forgetting, a deserving prickle of fear and trepidation etched its way into his heart, making his usually cocky and brave smile falter and leave. Only when they weren't watching. When they went out of their way to stop him from going to meetings, he stopped smiling altogether. Only where they couldn't see. But it's fine, right? He was part of a family that loved him and just wanted to keep him safe...right?

But when Derek used the door instead of the window to get into Stile's house, as small and insignificant a fact that may be, he accepted that something was wrong. He couldn't hide his feeling then, but no one saw. Becuase no one wanted to.

The knock on the door of the Stillinski household brought Stiles abruptly back from his pensiveness, forcing him to stand up, his too-young bones creaking in protest after a period of time spent in deep thought. He was dreaming. But it was a nightmare.

He cracked the door open and with a jolt of surprise realised it was Derek Hale, in other words: the alpha of his pack. The rugged werewolf stood hulked over in the doorway, seemingly uncomfortable, his default position in the face of any and all company. His muscle-bound figure was dressed in a henley, as usual, despite the cold, and he wore thick boots, only for show. He was a wolf, and he doesn't need human clothes. His hair was disheveled, unusual but more common now that he was in charge of the pack. Leadership didn't suit him. What did? His hazel, green eyes darted warily to Stiles and made him seem nervous. But that couldn't be true. This was Derek Hale!

"Hey, Sourwolf!" He said seemingly cheerily, but he had no doubt that Derek could hear his increased heartbeat, the scent of sadness emanating from his shaking frame and the pale pallor on his gaunt face. He felt a sense of shame flare up, creeping up to his then flushed cheeks as he averted his gaze from the brooding man in front of him. Submitting was never his strong suit, but Stiles was changing. Derek glared, his usual stony face intensified to a seemingly enraged expression. As hard and vague as Stiles guesswork was, he could work out that something was different. And Stiles was scared of different, so, so scared.

"Cat got your tongue?" Stiles quipped, then chuckled nervously at his unintended joke. Jokes weren't funny to a man of stone, and although no one would ever know it, it made embarrassment and fear become a familiar face to Stiles. But changing wasn't an option. He wouldn't let Derek see his feelings."Sit." growled Derek, and proceeded to push an indignant Stiles past the open door and into the living room. "Hey- I've said countless times you can't just-"

"You're out." Thundered Derek. Stiles gulped and sputtered angrily "You can't just come in and moan about my sexuality!" He wrung his hands and sat back with an agitated huff. His lighthearted joking was rapidly giving way to ripe fear, and primarily: terror. "God! I'm not gonna-"

"NO!" Roared an agitated Derek, making Stiles flinch, and the house seemed to shake, the wolf at its doorstep casting a shadow on the occupant and all of the memories within. Stiles' heart beat a shocked rhythm...he didn't understand! He was sure he was trembling now, he could hear a quickened pounding in his ears, and he realised it was his heart beating, trying to run away from the conversation. "You're not in the pack. Don't ask why and don't talk to any of us. Go. Away." ending in a barely contained snarl.

Derek's voice rumbled and resonated through Stiles' head. He gasped, the breath in his throat catching, he began to shake. Derek turned but Stiles rasped a terrified breath and tried fruitlessly to grab onto his sleeve. But he was gone. He rapidly strode away towards the dark abyss of the forest, until it swallowed him whole, both taking him away and providing him with the closure he sought from the fragile boy behind him. Stiles was lost.

"COME BACK DEREK! For fuck's sake..." He trembled until he caught sight of his reflection in the dusty mirror. Stricken and dependant. Hands shrouded in secrecy and pain reached out, unwillingly looking for the innocence of the old Stiles. But it couldn't be found. It was long gone.

His bottom lip began to wobble until fat tears rolled down his sunken cheeks and unaborted sobs forced their way out of him in ugly hacks. "Oh my god oh my g-god, o-o my fucking god" He whispered and sank to the floor in a defeated shrunken heap. Stiles sobbed, raw emotions coursing through him and breaking every nerve and shredding any sense of trust or happiness he had left, and mourned, once again, for the loss of the people who meant so much to him. But he knew that to them, he was nothing at all.

He lay there crying 'till the Sheriff nearly tripped over the shaking heap. He blinked, peered through the dusky light and swiftly picked up his son and lay him on his bed and continued to stroke him, muttering unsure words of reassurance. "Come on kid, it's gonna be alright..." But he worried for his son...what was he crying about? What could possibly make him sob this hard? Scott? The assumption made him clench weathered hands and stand up to turn the light off and tuck the blanket around the quivering body of his son. What happened, he didn't know, but he would stand with his son against it.

Stiles lay shaking, drifting in and out of sleep for the next five hours. Shell-shocked and lost, he blindly pushed the twisted pile of sheets off of his defeated frame and stumbled through the dark room and turned the switch. The light blinded him and he belatedly rubbed his tired eyes and glanced out of the ajar window; the source of his awakening. A breeze slipped into his room, and his spine stiffened as a pair of seemingly red, glowing eyes gazed unblinkingly back at him. He started and made to move towards the open window. But they were gone.

"Derek?" His cracked, unused voice wavered through the midnight air, but no one answered. He gazed into the empty, dark street below his window and his head filled with unanswered questions...did Derek want him back? Was that really who the person outside his window was? Had he dreamt the glowing eyes? Fear sliced into his numb brain and woke him up. A life overshadowed by grief and the supernatural told him that this wasn't something to be looked over. Shaking hands grappled on the cold doorknob 'till he managed to exit his room and lope down the stairs to frantically scrabble for his phone and call the pack. It was there, sitting at the kitchen table in a darkened room that Stiles realised that he was stranded. The pack didn't want him. "Oh god..." He mumbled, stinging eyes gave way to a stream of pained tears.

They didn't realise, they didn't know the amount of time he spent, the unaccountable hours of his life he spent slaving after that pack! First, it was Scott. Stiles was there, eternally there. The second and somewhat smaller half of "Scott and Stiles". He was the afterthought, the add-on. The sympathetic invite. He was the kid who no one really wanted to know, wishes they didn't, or just plain didn't care enough to see.

Pure rage overwhelmed Stiles, and for that one moment, with The Sheriff asleep, unaware but uneasy about his son's troubles, he crumpled. He screamed. He cried. He doubted himself, he laughed, in pure disbelief. He whispered that they would be back again. He cried. He sobbed, and no one heard.

No one heard him.

Because all those raw, painful emotions were never spoken aloud. They were in his head, and though that may sound much better, it made his troubles feel all the worse. Stiles could not. Under any circumstances. Show them weakness. He couldn't show anyone weakness! He was Stiles, the somehow dumb yet smart kid, the joking, sarcastic, goofy and clumsy...human.

He was only human. Countless movies, countless songs told him that it's okay. It's okay to cry and it's okay to want help, and talking about it was good! Yet somehow, this was unbelievable. A voice, small but overpowering told him that he was worthless. None of them cared...that made sense right? Because they left him. The spark had gone out of Stiles Stillinski and his hope was gone. Questions weren't asked. Answers were just accepted and what he knew was that he was alone. Well and truly alone.

Stiles slumped into his seat in the nocturnal light of his kitchen and watched the silent, unforgiving world through glassy, broken eyes. Becuase he couldn't hear the things the wolves could because he was human. Just a human. He kept reminding himself of this, a senseless mantra running through his whirlwind of a mind until he drew his last sane breath, and gave into the darkness. He felt soft. Like his heart was on the verge of breaking, and he was about to implode.

Everything was big, too gargantuan and too much for him. He swallowed, he tried to make it leave. But this is when he realised he was tainted, his thoughts were darkened and he couldn't pretend he loved life now!

None of the pain in his life could be controlled, his mom, his train-wreck of a dad, the pack, even school! He sniffled, wiping a shaking hand across his raw, red eyes. His pale, ivory skin glinted in the moonlight, catching his eye. Stiles stared at it, a million thoughts rampaging through his ever persistent brain. One of which made his breath catch, he shakily tapped his arm with one quivering, extended finger, doubting himself, always, and made a decision. This would change his ever painful life once more. For the worse.

He caved in on himself, and at 3:06 on a gloomy Friday early morning, Stiles resigned himself to finding peace with the relieving pain of a rusty razor blade and a cold shower. He didn't think he was worth any better...


	2. Panic Attack

He was in shock. But he was mesmerised. The slowly healing cut on his arm was raw and bumpy, and when he touched it, sharp stinging pains laced through him, a reminder of what happened the night before. Stiles shuddered, and he decided he'd never do it again. That cut, it would leave a mark! His pale skin would be fragmented forever, the delicate yet sinewy flesh was hurt. And it wouldn't be the same again.

He was scared. About the pain, his mind was reeling from countless feasible infections, long-lasting injuries and even, possibly, Septicemia. Stiles didn't want to die. Not even partially! His dad would break, and who would be left to fix him then? He was scared of the adrenaline harming himself brought, the sense of sickening wonderment and peace that watching the droplets of blood gave him. But he couldn't do it again...he wouldn't! He'd tried it, and it was bad. So, so bad.

Heaving himself out of bed, he quickly pulled on a plaid shirt, and for once he was thankful for the long sleeves. They hid what happened and when the ugly almost-scar was out of view, he almost felt normal again. Of course, the ache deep down in the pit of his stomach was there to stay, unlike his pack. They left him! And behind was this pitch black nothing that swept Stiles along until he didn't feel in control. So Stiles grinned, a fake smile, yet still a smile, and forced his gaunt face to show something more than sadness, and left his room.

Eating breakfast was rare, but for some unknown, evil reason, the Sherriff decided today was the day to make conversation over just that.

"Hey pops." Stiles grinned, falling into his seat across from the tired looking sheriff.

"Hey kiddo" He mumbled back, smiling at Stiles, but not catching his eyes for long. Stiles internally sighed, both at the show of uncomfortableness and the plate in front of his dad...

"Two sausages?!" He groaned, narrowing his eyes at the older man, who pretended to not hear him. The Sherriff leaned back, letting out a long sigh, regarding his disapproving son.

"Cmon, Stiles! Did you see what garbage was in that...vegan...thing...yesterday?! Let your old man get some good food in his old days." He knew he was making Stiles feel guilty, and suddenly felt mean. He was trying his best. Stiles was an only child with HIM as his father. He deserved some more respect.

Coughing awkwardly, The Sherrif overrode Stiles indignant squark."Hey! I'm helping you out old man, you'll be happy abou-" with "Well, it could have been as bad as that god-awful gluten-free lasagne..." He shuddered and frowned silently at the table in front of him, perhaps searching for something more to say to Stiles, but he couldn't. Stiles scoffed and rapped his fork on the table, standing up and waving his half-chewed pop tart in the direction of his dad. "Uh-huh...just don't get any more sausages! Bye pops, see ya later." The Sherriff shifted restlessly. A prickle of guilt worked its way into his mind. He was doing it again. "I'm not going to be home for another couple of days...there's a big conference out in Georgia. If you need anything, call Melissa, okay?" He smiled, a tight stressed grimace, waiting for his son's reaction. Stiles smile dropped, he clenched the pop tart and crumbs dropped to the floor.

"Sure, dad. Be safe okay?" He smiled sadly and turned around, picking up his keys and left the house. The Sherriff was left silent, sad, and guilty in a house of lies and secrets.

Gripping his keys like a vice, Stiles strode purposely to his Jeep, slamming the door open and sprawling in the driver's seat, he was sprung, overwhelmed and waves of sorrow and fear knocked through him. Call Melissa?! He wasn't a problem of hers anymore. He was none of their problems anymore. School was going to be hell...were they going to speak to him? He would speak to them...he had too! Maybe it was a joke? A very cruel one, he'd be relieved, because then we wouldn't be alone.

Driving to school was hard, through a mask of tears and anxiety, the roads were distorted, warping and twisting so every turn felt like it would be the last, and only a small morsel of Stiles cared. But he arrived at school, he was alive, but he wasn't well. Anger and fear were still throbbing through him, pulsating in terrifying tidal waves, making his heartbeat hammer against his ribcage and sweat glisten on his taught throat. He determined shouldered his bag, desperation, making him hold onto the idea they still cared.

Stiles walked to behind the bleachers, he saw Lydia and Jackson. He expected that. But he didn't expect the hostile glares, almost snarls that came.

"Hey, Lyds. What's up?" He shouldered on, he was determined to keep everything okay, he was determined to stay sane. Lydia looked enraged. She took a deep breath, before fixing Stiles with eyes that spoke of hatred and no compassion.

"Stay. Away." Jackson growled, stalking past Lydia, before stopping, a brutal shield between the two: in front of Stiles. He was shaking with barely contained rage, and Stiles looked on, confused, but mostly terrified. He didn't know what was happening! What did he do?

"I-I...okay. I'm sorry" He spoke in a small, defeated voice, but Stiles was done. His voice hitched, and trying to contain sobs, he walked quickly away, aware of Lydias cold, but a weirdly frantic voice in the background...

"He's not worth it Jackson. We're better off without him"

Stiles strode through the halls of Beacon Hill High, their walls seeming to close in. He slammed into the toilets, ignoring the snide jocks, the alarmed peers, he went into a cubicle, where his mask fell away. It crumpled, and his hazel eyes lost their life once again. Stiles raised his shaking, pale hands and cupped them around his neck, squeezing and grounding himself in the most brutal way he knew.

The hubbub of school sank into nothing as he was sucked into his mind. He was gone. Gasps racked through his malnourished frame, and although he couldn't hear it, snickers came from the uneasy jocks, and they left. He was weird.

20 minutes later, Stiles thought he was feeling better. At least, he felt stable. He emerged from the toilet, praying he saw no one. Especially the pack. No one was there. And he felt glad, but also sorry. Somewhere deep inside of him, he wanted someone to know that he was hurting!

Stiles gripped onto the dirty, yet grounding surface of the sinks, and examined his reflection through the grime of the cracked, cloudy mirrors. He didn't like himself. In fact, he hated what he saw, doubts weren't unfamiliar to Stiles, but they're worse now. He feels let down, so, so let down. By himself? Of course. A sliver of self-loathing had worked its way into his tender heart and it was there to stay for a long time.

In the murky depths of Stiles' shattered mind, he managed to register the sound of a bell, ringing repetitively, and it took him a few seconds to decipher its meaning. It dawned on him he had to go to class. With Erica. It was like a second wave had hit him, a tidal wave. Dredging away any optimism or braveness he had...but he had to go. For his dad. For him. But was he worth fighting for?

His doubts followed him like an entourage of sickening emotion, but Stiles painted with a fresh smile, and he headed inside Algebra, Class 1X3. His spine stiffened as he took a seat next to her, but she ignored him. His doubts caught up.

Stiles bent down to get his book and saw Ericas clenched fists, under her desk. He thought silence was a step up from a confrontation. But he wasn't so sure anymore. He was confused and sad. What did he do? What is so, so bad that now he was being shunned for it!

His head throbbed, and rage coursed through him, he stood up, a tremor wracking its way through him, and stared at Erica. A distraught, desperate look. She felt like he was boring into her soul, and flinched away from it. She was scared of Stiles. Yet she felt immense sorrow for him.

"He was alone. But he deserved it. He did this to himself, to save himself! There was no humanity in Stiles Stillinski anymore." She repeated this thought until the boy left the bewildered class behind, stalking out of the classroom with his head hung low.

"Good." She thought.

She couldn't describe the pain she felt...physically and mentally, Erica was exhausted. And Stiles was no longer in her life.


	3. You're Back!

A dirty, blue jeep revved its dying engine and sputtered to an eventual, morose stop, its owner swearing profusely and trying their hardest not to show the despair on their face. This was Stiles. He clenched his fists and tried to centre the dread in his stomach by pressing the scars, causing pain from earlier inflicted wounds to course through him. He bent his head, taking wobbly but measured breaths and dug out his battered phone to call the Sherriff, his dad, to account for his latest break down.

Hearing the low purr of an upcoming car, Stiles quickly looked up to see a sleek sports car, easily being one of the most expensive of its kind. Confusing, as Beacon Hills was a town of aged retirees and beaten down families...who was it? Hurriedly looking down so as not to be caught staring, Stiles began to slowly dial his father's number. He secretly hoped- however far in denial that thought was- that the driver would stop to help, or quite contrastingly be an outlet from Stiles' imagination that would leave as quickly as it appeared, which one he wanted? He wasn't sure.

Miraculously, the engine slowed to a smooth halt as the vehicle halted next to the jeep. A tinted window rolled down soundlessly. Stiles gaped, it was Peter!

"Hello, handsome," Peter smirked as Stiles sniggered in obvious disbelief, making Peter's eyes narrow. Stiles put his phone in his pocket and embarrassedly muttering "Hello, Creeper Wolf." Peter fixed him with a hard stare that made any little confidence Stiles had to disappear.

Shifting nervously from foot to foot, he gave the older man an uncomfortable grin, Peter leaned over and undid the door on the other side of the car, then looked at Stiles, a. "Well, if you promise to behave yourself, then you can get in." analysing the much-changed teen in front of him.

"What about my baby? I would NEVER leave her like that! You can't expect me to-"

"I'll call the repair company, Stiles, hurry up."

"Oh. Then thanks, though I have a feeling you have an ulterior motive. I suppose I'll get to that when you do whatever it-"

"Do you really trust me so little?" Peter asked amusedly, though if Stiles could detect scents like the wolf, he would've noticed a small amount of sorrow and remorse.

Stiles scoffed, a small snigger making its way through his clamped, tense mouth.

"You've never proven yourself trustworthy, have you?" He ended on a questioning, insecure tone, all the confidence Stiles had rotted away after he was rejected by Derek and the pack.

Peter, though he wouldn't tell a soul, felt guilty. But he felt an overwhelming sense of curiosity. The boy in front of him had drastically changed. Stiles used to be loud, cocky, sarcastic. Stiles didn't hate himself. And Peter wanted to know why...how? The boy had shrunk in on himself, making a small, protective instinct flare up inside Peter. That confused him...who was Stiles to Peter? A small, annoying, sensitive child! But his emotions changed, and so did Stiles.

"Well," He started, "Let me at least begin to show my worth by helping now." Peter gestured to the empty seat of his sleek, inviting car, and Stiles pushed aside all his fears because if this was a trap, he'd die. That's what he wanted. But if he lived? He was alive, and Stiles counted that as a win. So, with a diminishing sense of trepidation, he sat awkwardly in the seat of Peter's car, wary of the wolf beside him.

The journey would take fifteen minutes, and five of those were spent in an uncomfortable, on Stiles behalf, and curious, in the case of Peter, silence. This was broken, luckily, when Peter coughed and tapped his fingers languidly against the steering wheel.

"So hows my nephews pack doing? I trust they're all as annoying as usual."

Stiles snickered quietly and mournfully, the memory was fresh and as painful as the cut on his arm.

Should he tell Peter what happened? On one hand, he didn't care, obviously. He was Peter Hale. He was a narcissist, sociopathic, feral wolf. But alternatively, he wouldn't care! He wouldn't mind what happened, and he wouldn't judge Stiles, god, not after his strained relationship with Derek.

"Well, I'm not...a part of that pack anymore, so I'm not sure..." His gravelly unused voice sliced through the otherwise quiet car, and Peters' eyes widened, what the hell was Derek thinking, getting rid of Stiles?! He hadn't learned that wolves and humans aren't on different levels, and packs need the focus and unique view of a human to ground the pack! It was probably this idiocy and way of thinking that created the situation.

Peter felt angry, on behalf of Stiles but also at himself. Why did he not teach Derek when he had the chance? Kate Argent filled his heart with fear and hate and now he viewed every human as the same, the same traits, and the same death wish for the ones he loved. Who was he protecting? What did Stiles do?

The poor kid looked like he'd taken it hard, and...is that the smell of blood? Peter was worried. Becuase, if he was right, Stiles was making the same mistakes as he did, a long time ago. Suddenly, he felt very aware of the rigid scars expanding over his stomach and thigh, no one knew. But Peter has only become more broken through his lifetime, and his burns did nothing but give him cover for them. No one asks a burn victim about suspicious scars. No one ever asks.

So Peter wanted to answer.

Before it got worse for Stiles. He'd respond to his plea for help!

But Peter didn't live in an ideal world. And emotions are weaknesses. So how could he help?! Peter was still shrouded in his own darkness, and he couldn't get rid of it. He didn't need Stiles addition.

"It's a shame. You're worth more than them, Stiles." Peter smiled smugly at Stiles as if he knew all the things that the younger man didn't. "They missed their chance, they didn't value you."

Stiles looked at him, a not-quite-smile extending to his ashen lips, he was confused but unsurprised at Peters actions. He'd wanted him to join him to create a pack for a long time, but Peter wasn't an alpha anymore. Surely? So what did he want?

Even as he debated the possibility of Peter being an alpha once again, the memory of the night before came back to him. Glowing eyes. Red. Glowing. Eyes. But with one final doubt, Stiles banished that thought, burying it deep in a pile among other things he refused to think about, and was determined to keep ignoring until the problem went away.

"I appreciate the thought, Peter.-"

"Aaah so I'm not Creeper Wolf anymore?"

"Well, now you've been demoted" Creeper Wolf."

Peter smirked and watched Stiles chuckle, but there wasn't any real happy emotion behind it, but it was something.

"Stay safe, okay?"

"Wow. That was ominous, even for you."

But as he said it, Stiles' heart sped up, and he doubted if the cut had escaped Peters notice. He willed it to speed up healing, so he could just forget all about it!

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence, this one a little tenser until the unlikely pair pulled up in front of the Stillinski residence. Stiles internally sighed, he didn't want to leave the quiet yet somehow reassuring presence of the older Hale man, and stepping into the dark, silent house was an unsavoury idea.

"I'll call the breakdown company. I'll drop off your keys when it's done so-"

"But how do I get to scho-" Stiles sputtered

"Call me and I can take you there and back until you've got your lump of metal back," Peter interjected smoothly.

Stiles scowled but felt warmth flood into his stomach, knowing he wouldn't have to say goodbye just yet.

"But why are you back? What happened? Were you with Coar? I appreciate the ride, but what did you do? I-"

"Goodbye, Stiles."

"...Bye. Peter."


	4. Broken

Exactly thirteen hours, three minutes and nineteen seconds after Stiles bid farewell to the older man, the doorbell rang, and he was back.

During this time, however, Stiles had been wondering, conspiring and panicking about the recent arrival of the one and only: Peter Hale. He paced agitatedly across the worn floors of his bedroom, tossed and turned in a fruitless attempt to sleep, and never, ever stopped worrying. If anyone was to listen from outside the door, then they would have been concerned by the harsh, ragged breathing emitting from the depths of the room, but Stiles was alone.

What was Peter doing, coming back to Beacon Hills...would he join the pack? Would he turn on Stiles? Was the kindness shown simply meticulously planned manipulation? After every question he asked himself, Stiles felt a knife stab deeper into him, cracking open his emotions, and making him so much more vulnerable.

Why he felt this, he wasn't sure. He would never have worried so much about this before! But lots had changed, and now everything had a hidden, more complicated meaning. A time that was formerly spent watching films, playing games, reading...now he was absent, his mind clouded.

Stiles had always been easily distracted, as is the way of ADD, but now, he would spend eternities locked away in his head, scared of speaking, of saying the wrong thing. His mind reeled over the conversation with Peter, and it gnawed at his insides, creating an insatiable ache in the pit of his stomach. It stayed for many hours, an unwanted companion in the dark hours of one of the longest nights of his life.

At 20:19, Stiles at dinner, alone, and sickeningly analysing every second of his ride with Peter. He doubted the man's sincerity, but he yearned equally as strongly that he was in the process of making a friend. It took half an hour to eat the food he used to devour with gusto. His mind took him to places away from the cooling meal, and towards a realm of dark possibilities and morbid prospects.

At 20:49, he sat in front of the TV, switched it on, stared unmovingly, he wasn't there. For the hundredth time since Peter left, he was agonizing over the words he spoke. What did he mean when he said "Goodbye"? Goodbye forever? Goodbye could mean he was going back to the pack...

At 22:36, Stiles retreated to bed in the hopes of banishing his thoughts, but his sleep was troubled and he woke multiple times, covered in a sheen of sweat and gazing at the ceiling, a knot in his throat and the throbbing sensation of worry creeping through him.

Stiles did not sleep well. Physically or mentally, he was exhausted. He was wracked by nightmares dominated by twisted smirks and knowing chuckles, warped by the onslaught of stress and fear. Much of the night was spent in a state of consciousness, in a sort of meditation. A terrible, cursed reverie.

But when daylight peeked through the windows and lit up the musty, dark room, Stiles felt his nightmares turning into dreams again, and he woke up. He stretched his aching, stiff limbs and dragged himself into a shower. He woke up. His thought lightened as if tracking the sun, and it was like the night before had dissipated, gone, banished. Stiles smiled at his reflection, simply because he felt like he'd gotten through it. He was tired, vulnerable and emotional, but he was better now.

Slipping on a plaid shirt felt like wiping clean a used slate, and he was new, fresh! But as he brushed past the door of his room, Stiles felt the pain of the cut, and his smile slipped.

He was flawed. How could he forget? Doubts came back to the Stilinski household in vengeance, but Stiles pushed on. He was scared, but his shaky hands tapped out a text to Peter:

"Hey Creeper Wolf. Are you planning on picking me up any time soon? -S"

He responded quickly.

"Yes, but I imagine further car drop-offs won't be possible if you don't address the driver by their correct name. - Peter"

Stiles smiled, a hollow smirk, and resigned to using Peters real name, he didn't want to give up his ride quite so soon.

"Fine. Peter. So, when do you get here?"

He fidgeted, waiting for a response, and jumped violently when he heard a car horn, then picked up his bag, striding towards the front door and playfully scowled, but a smile bloomed on his face, flushed cheeks showing how excited he was to talk to Peter. He opened the door and saw the sleek, dark red sports car that rescued him the day before, and Peter smirking behind the wheel.

Stiles opened the door to the passenger seat and whistled, staring in awe at the high-tech sound system and audio navigation device embedded into the car.

"Don't tell my baby...but this is impressive."

"Hello to you too, Stiles."

"Oh, yeah. Hi! Thanks for the whole drop off thing..." Stiles drifted off and awkwardly looked out of the window, unsure which of the many possibilities he wondered about last night would come true.

"It's the least I could do."

Peter smiled and looked over at the fidgeting boy, he looked paler and gaunter than the last time they met, Peter thought that would have been impossible, and he hoped he wasn't the cause of it. The pungent scent of worry, fear and self-loathing drifted over to Peter and he considered going back on what he said yesterday. He wanted to help Stiles, and he wasn't sure why, but a protective instinct was curling itself around his brain and

he wanted to be there, to mend the broken boy he was sitting next to.

Peter was confused, feelings like this weren't usual for the lonesome wolf. But Stiles had worked his way into his heart, whilst believing he wasn't in any. So Peter resigned himself to trying to at least let Stiles know he wasn't unloved, by Peter? No. By others? Peter was sure.

"Listen, you should come over to my loft tonight and you can ask whatever you want, alright?"

"And you promise to answer truthfully?" Stiles owlish eyes blinked up at Peter, and made him sigh, and say;

"Yes. Of course."

"Cool! I mean, do they have to be related? I have a lot of questions...so thanks! I'll see you later, right? Bye."

Peter opened the door for Stiles, smiling and telling him to have a good day, and watched the boy walk off, and he noticed. He w=saw he gait of a man who felt trapped, broken and cornered.

He could change that.


	5. Let In

School was just as bad, if not worse. Before, lacrosse was bearable. Fun, even! But now Stiles didn't want to do anything. He was questioning if life was worth it, and that scared him...all the monsters of the week...the pack...werewolves! They meant nothing in the face of his jokes and sarcasm, but not now. But now all he feared was himself and his mind left alone on a dark night.

Stiles gripped his bag, willing himself to steady his shaking fingers and strode out of school, thankfully, not to come back for the next two days. As he neared the parking lot, he spotted Peter, in the corner, leaning against his car, and a flurry of whispers and giggles could be heard...

"Who is he?"

"How old is he?"

"He looks rich..."

Stiles rolled his eyes, unsurprised by the jealous, petty and appreciative remarks, and looked over to see Lydia staring at Peter, her eyes wide. She was muttering to Jackson, who glared in the direction of the older wolf. They knew he was here.

Panic gripped Stiles, who stumbled backwards as Peter spotted him, he was close now to the sports car, and Peter opened the door, ignoring Lydia's distant figure and beckoned to Stiles. He practically jumped into the car, and hastily put his seatbelt on, ducking his head and busying himself with his bag.

Peter was concerned, Stiles' pallor had turned grey, and he stunk of fear and panic.

"Stiles, are you okay?"

"Can you drive? Please?" His desperate tone spurred Peter on, who reluctantly sped out of the school, and when the two had sat in silence for a few minutes he turned back to Stiles.

"So, what happened?" He was concerned, and he was sure it could be seen on his face.

Stiles blushed, awkwardly scratched his head, and went over the past events in his head. "Well, Lydia...she saw you...and then me again and I think she'll tell the rest of the pack I'm speaking to you and-" his breath caught in his throat and suddenly big, hot tears sprang down his cheeks, dripping down his neck as he started crying, shoulders heaving, racked with sobs, Stiles reached up to angrily swipe away the tears, but they wouldn't stop. Tilting his head back, he tried to stop them by some miraculous feat of gravity, but the water rolled down his cheeks, making his skin raw and red.

Peter stared, and slowed the car before pulling into a lay-by and stopping the car. Everything was silent other than Stiles quiet crying, who was trying furiously to wipe them away, before covering his face with trembling hands. Peter looked on, shocked and realising Stiles felt so much worse than he was letting on.

"I'm really sorry..." Stiles sniffled, peeking out of his hands, looking at Peter tearily, before blushing, obviously embarrassed at the outburst. Peter silently reached into a side pocket of the car, pulling out a pack of tissues and handing it to Stiles, who took it, giving a small smile to Peter.

As he wiped his eyes, self consciously bowing his head, Peter rummaged around in the side pocket of the car again, catching Stiles attention. After a few seconds, he sat back up, emerging with an elastic band. Stiles stared, confused, he cocked his head, squinting at the older man. Peter stretched it out absently, and snapped it back, making Stiles slightly jump. He saw the older man look up, as if he had been in a dream, and look back at Stiles, making him blush beet red.

"I'm so, so sorry for crying in your car dude...won't happen again..." He chuckled nervously, waiting for Peters approval.

"Don't worry about it." To Stiles surprise Peter smiled warmly at him, he shyly offered a small smile back.

"I...saw the cut on your arm."

Stiles froze. His heart hammered, a thumping rhythm threatening to beat right out of his chest. Peter looked down, seeming to gulp before barreling on:

"You don't have to tell me anything...or make anything up...but I wanted you to have this." He gave the younger boy the elastic band, avoiding his eye contact.

"You can put it around your wrist. Whenever you want to...harm yourself...snap it against your wrist and it helps. At least...it helped me." Peter gruffly coughed, as if moving on from the conversation entirely, but Stiles stared at Peter, temporarily speechless. He caught the older weres wrist, before he could turn away, and beamed at him. Peter looked surprised but smiled openly back.

He wasn't alone! Peter did it too. Shock coursed through him like adrenaline pumping through his head.

"You...you do that?"

Peter sighed. "I used to. I managed to stop."

"I only did it once. I won't do it again!"

Stiles smiled brightly, but the grin didn't quite reach his eyes. Peter smiled back, but it was equally as fake...as if he worried Stiles was wrong. Feeling his lower lip beginning to wobble again, Stiles lunged over the gearstick, catching an unsuspecting Peter in a voracious hug, after a few shocked seconds, he loosened his arms and wrapped them around Stiles, over the middle of the car.

They stayed like this for the next few minutes, Stiles slowly calming down and his breaths returning to a normal rate, whilst Peter thrived under the physical contact he missed so, so much. He shivered, smiling secretly into Stiles' shoulder, inhaling the scent of the boy he wanted to protect, to keep safe and happy. Rubbing his scent into the boy's neck, he rumbled happily, a deep, reassuring sound from deep within his diaphragm. Stiles giggled, a high pitched snort, turning his face to look in mirth at Peter.

"You're purring!"

Peter scowled playfully, turning red, and Stiles smiled contentedly until he realised what he was doing...he was cuddling with Peter Hale! Stiles sat bolt upright, staring at a bewildered Peter, who sat properly in the driver seat, a little frown on his face.

"Sorry..." Stiles murmured, but Peter looked at him, an understanding, lonely look.

"I didn't mind." He smiled shyly...out of character, Stiles thought. Peter turned on the car, before pulling out and settling back into a driving rhythm.

"Are you still up for coming to mine to talk?"

Stiles' eyes brightened, the opportunity to find out more about the Were overwhelming any fears he had the other night, he vigorously nodded his head.

"Yes! Yes. Definitely."

Peter chuckled and nodded his head towards a secluded turn-off, into a part of Beacon Hills Stiles seldom visited.

"You're not going to murder me, are you?" Stiles grinned, but still, his inquisitive eyes burrowed into Peters'.

"Hah. No. But if I was...why would I tell you?" Stiles gave him a look. "Sorry, maybe not the best thing to say..." Peter laughed, his eyes crinkling, and Stiles stared, awed by the older man. He caught himself, blushed and snorted, before pulling out his phone.

"I'd better text my dad. So he knows I'm alive." It went unspoken, but they both remembered their earlier talk, and Stiles traced the elastic band on his wrist, recognising the trust and respect it symbolised.

"Go ahead. We're five minutes away."

For the rest of the ride, Peter and Stiles talked freely, laughing and joking in a way neither of them ever had before, and without telling the other, they both realised they had found a friend.

After the five minutes Peter had promised flew by, the sports car purred to a languid stop in front of a modern yet rustic house. It was large, almost a mansion, causing Stiles to gape, astonished at the sheer size of the property Peter owned.

"How did you afford this?!" Stiles stared at the house, it looked like it would belong to a large, well-off family.

"From my part of the will. From the...the fire. It's our old holiday home, I renovated it. It's the very least I could do, y'know?"

Stiles exhaled slowly, quiet under the grief Peter was emanating "I'm...I think it's amazing." He smiled at the Were, trying to convey how amazing the property was, how amazing he was. Stiles internally frowned...what was he talking about? He didn't like Peter! He couldn't. The guy was amazing, he had already helped Stiles so much... but that's all Peter wanted. To help. Not to love.

Peter smiled, a sad, slowly healing smile, and Stiles' heart reached out to the man. He could empathise, he lost his mother and it broke every inch of his heart. He knew how he felt because he felt it too.

"Thank you, Stiles. I'm trying." With that, he suddenly got out of the car, round it with three long strides, and opened the door for Stiles, smirking and dramatically bowing at the younger boy, before guiding him up some stairs to the front door, a majestic, old, oak frame. Stiles snorted, excitedly rocking on the balls of his feet, waiting impatiently for it to open. When Peter unlocked and opened the door, inviting Stiles in, he wordlessly stepped over the threshold, taking in the life Peter had made for himself.

"Peter, it's amazing here...how long have you been working on this?"

"A few years." Stiles looked shocked, then hurt, wondering how long Peter had secretly been in Beacon Hills. "But I just got back!" Peter hurried to say, seeing the look on Stiles' face. "I've been watching it all come into place and now I'm here. For good." He gestured to a seating area further into the room, comfortable sofas situated around a fireplace, unlit, yet emitting a cosy, homely feel.

"Feel free to sit while I get us some drinks...is water okay? I've not stocked up yet..." Peter looked sheepish, frowning slightly at his feet. Stiles rushed to convince him everything he was doing was above and beyond anything Stiles felt he needed...

"No, no! Water is good! Waters nice, very...juicy!" He blushed, violently berating himself silently for his countless awkward remarks.

Peter chuckled and walked off, round a corner, presumably to the kitchen.

When the two were out of sight of the other, they wondered, they deliberated, they wished. They both felt doubts, they both secretly wished for something. What was that something? They weren't sure, but Stiles tried to banish all thoughts regarding Peter romantically and Peter felt feelings he hadn't felt in a long time. They were foreign, he couldn't place them, but butterflies swarmed his stomach, making him feel warm and loved. No, liked? But he felt that something good was blooming, a delicate, tentative something. But it was there, for sure, and they would be there for each other for as long as they could. He would be. Peter smiled, remembering the hug in the car fondly, the security of hugging someone, finally. Months of being paralysed brought loneliness, fear and doubt. But years of isolation? They brought nothing but pain. And Peter and Stiles were ready to change that.


	6. Mistakes

Peter rummaged through the cupboards in the kitchen of the refurbished Hale house, berating himself for not leaving some out in the face of company. Having moved in only four days earlier, he still wasn't sure where all the small things where yet, but he loved it here. He was back, and faint scents clung to the original beams and frames, reminding of the family he lost but still loved so, so much. He'd lost Derek too. At least the one he used to know. The gnarled and twisted vengeful creature he had become shocked Peter, leaving a numb pain in his heart that used to belong to his nephew. Derek had changed. They all had. Stiles. Peter. Cora.

As the Were filled two glasses with water at the sink, he felt his phone vibrate in his back pocket. Curious, as he didn't receive many messages, he pulled it out, setting down the drinks, the dull clink resounding like a gunshot in the general quiet.

It was Lydia.

Peters grip loosened on the device, shock making his heart pound quicker than ever as he read the message...

"I just thought you'd like to know that Stiles isn't as good as you seem to think. I've told the pack and I thought you might be interested to know. He's just as bad as you. He's been working for Gerard Argent. He told him all about the pack and everything we knew! He'll deny everything, but that's why he's no longer a friend of ours. He betrayed us all, even you. Before you ask how we know, Ericka and Boyd told us. Gerard tortured them and Stiles did nothing! I cannot find it in me to express how much I hate him and I'm not the only one who feels that way. Leave him alone, it's the least he deserves. -L"

The kitchen was silent but in Peters' head, the words resonated endlessly, a cool reminder of the cruel world he lived in. Why did Stiles not mention a word of this...was he a spy? But Peter noticed nothing at all! The memories of the past few days flashed in front of his eyes in a vivid film of betrayal and agonizing anger. The hug, the tears. Was it all for show?

Peter was seething. Anger forced claws to lengthen from trembling fingertips, and eyes to flicker in animosity...but mostly, Peter felt so so betrayed. The only good development had been ripped from him, by the very person himself. He had twisted his words into Peters' heart, warping it and leaving a sizeable chunk gaping, painful and raw. Again.

Clenching his claws into blooded palms, Peter strode through the house, stopping in front of Stiles, who was excitedly looking through the films lining it.

"Hey! You have every single Star Wars movie! Woah, dude, that's impressive!" He smiled up at Peter, his grin slipping off as he saw the murderous look on his face.

"W...what's wrong?" He looked sheepish, glancing at the films he'd been looking at. "Look I'm sorry I snooped through your films...I won't do it again. I'm really sorry!"

Without a word, Peter shoved the phone at Stiles, making him jump, silently urging him to read the message Lydia had sent. Stiles slowly took the phone, clasping confused, wary hands around the device, and looked bewildered. Peter glared.

"Read." Anger radiated from every pore in his body, and he was just a comment away from roaring at the boy.

He breathed quietly, slowly, in, and out. Waiting for Stiles to read the message from Lydia felt like an eternity. A terrifying, painful eternity that ripped through Peter, as he stared at Stiles. What had he done?

Stiles' head throbbed, an increasing beating sound rushing through his ears as he read the text, and in the back of his mind, he realised he was hearing his heartbeat, abnormally elevated in the horror of the situation. Because he didn't know anything about what Lydia said! A cold stone settled in his stomach, and he turned pleading eyes to Peter, who had turned to stone.

"Peter...I didn't do this!" His desperate voice cracked, and he took a step back, as Peters' eyes narrowed, a heartbroken look in his eyes that shattered Stiles.

"She's lying! I promise with all of my heart! I'm no-" Peter had taken a step forward, growling quietly at Stiles. He took a step back frantically, hurriedly putting space between him and the enraged Were.

"Please...Peter! Please believe me!"

"Why should I?" Peters' voice sounded wrecked. He spoke through clenched, elongated, animal teeth. He wasn't going to listen to reason now. "You...you made me think you cared..." The older man had seldom been so close to tears, but now he felt vulnerable, spread open for Stiles to pick apart and make fun of.

"And you just tricked me!"

He growled, stepping forward again, practically vibrating with raw strength and pain.

"I promise..." Stiles eyes filled with tears, and Peter watched him hopelessly as they rolled down his face. He started gasping, quick, frantic breaths racked his body and he stumbled backwards, down a step and a crack resonated through the watching house as Peter reacted only on instinct...

"NO" He roared, leaping to his side, retracting his claws frantically and tentatively reaching behind the boys head, whimpering when his hand came away wet and covered in spreading, dark blood.

He sprang up, lunging across the room to his phone, manically pressing the keys, 911 dancing across the screen as tears stung his eyes. Mixed emotions clashed in front of his eyes...anger, fear and guilt. They swept him over as he barked his address and the urgency of the incident.

Seven minutes and thirty-seven seconds later, Peter watched Stiles being pulled on a gurney into a waiting ambulance, and guilt crashed over him, racking his body in tremors. He did this. How did he know Lydia was telling the truth? When Stiles was trying to convince him she was lying his heartbeat showed no trace of a lie...it was jumpy and fast because he was scared! Of Peter.

Hours and hours of debating, struggling and pain had passed in a haze of supposed heartbreak, and Peter could stand it no more. The Were scraped exhausted hands over sodden eyes and vowed to never doubt Stiles again. The boy had never done anything bad, ever! Slowly, Peters' heart began to doubt the text he received and made him make a decision which he would forever be grateful for.

He went to see Stiles.


	7. Who Took Who?

The hospital stung Peters' sharp nose, the ripe scents of pain, antisceptic and sorrow seeping through thin walls, low mutterings and far-off sobbing ricocheting off of laminated, scrubbed floors. It was a strange place: of pain, sorrow, death, and birth. An overbearing feeling of dread swept over the Were, making him feel trapped, scared.

"Just find Stiles. That's all I need to do." The mantra overtook any thoughts of the previous thoughts warping Peters vision, as he tried not to succumb to the terror that hospitals brought him. The last time he'd been here...he was powerless, essentially frozen and paranoid for months on end. The fire had taken his love for living along with his families lives. He didn't want to come to a place that stripped him of his former life, his wife! His wife, who was carrying his child.

Collapsing into a chair gratefully, Peter cradled his weary head in his hands, focusing on the unmoving, linoleum floor in the hope of the tears crowding his vision not falling. But as if in slow motion, two twin drops of hot, salty water fled from the man, splashing unforgivingly: a sign of his weakness.

In...and out...in...and out...

Shaky breaths brought the Were back to the present day, away from smoky wrecks and agonizing screams. Stiles needed to hear his apology! Because of his anger, the already broken boy had been hurt. Severely. Sitting up, and smoothing out his rumpled, day old clothes, the man tried to remove the haggardness from his face, it was only partly successful. He stood up, silently following the scent of Stiles through twisting, sterile corridors until he reached a weathered door. Stiles was inside. But as Peter reached shakily for the doorknob, he sensed the presence of another, older man. The Sheriff. Through the thin door, Peter could hear him taking deep measured breaths, he stank of stress. The man clearly hadn't left his sons' side for a while. Preparing for an onslaught of hostility, Peter opened the door and watched the Sheriff's head snap up in a way which surely caused some pain, but the Sheriff felt none of it.

"What are you doing here, Hale?"

Peter greeted him calmly, softly shutting the door behind him. "I came to visit Stiles. I called the ambulance for him." A sharp intake of breath punctured the tense silence and the Sheriff rose out of his seat abruptly.

"Did you do this?" His low voice was mindful of the sleeping form less than a metre from him, but the threat in his tone was thinly veiled. Peters' eyes widened, the shock palpable on his face.

"No! Of course not! He tripped, on some stairs, he...cracked his head on impact. I called the ambulance straight away..."

The Were looked at the ground, frowning and hiding the stress on his tired face. But he looked up in surprise as the Sheriff strode in front of him, the grave and serious face giving way to relief.

"Thank you." The Sheriff put a gruff hand on Peters' shoulder giving him a non-verbal approval.

Peter nodded solemnly. Bowing his head, his heart went out to the man. He was trying so, so hard in the face of his wife's death. It must have been hard. Peter knew. He did.

The Sheriffs face crumpled, his usual stoic expression folding into a grimace of morbid sorrow. Peter watched, eyes wide, as he covered his rimming eyes with weathered hands, ashamed.

"I...I tried so hard, after...my wife passed away. But he's been so far away, and I...I hate myself for this...but I'm so busy I can't talk to him about it." The man's voice broke, as he eyed the sleeping boy in the bed. "And...I've been neglecting him so much. God. He...He cut himself!" Peter looked on gravely, narrowed eyes cast at the floor as he felt a spike of anger at the hopeless man. An excuse for a father. He wasn't there for Stiles, not once! At this point, in the few days Peter had been there, he felt he had done more than any biological member of Stiles' family.

"He told me." Peter looked the man straight in the eyes, a direct challenge to him. The Sheriff looked shocked, then ashamed.

"God..."

"I spoke to him about it. About coping mechanisms."

Stiles' father toppled into a chair, looking sadly at his son. "Then you've been better to him than I have been. I'm so, so...so fucking sorry..." Peter glared, finally unsheathing the rage he felt at the absence of a nurturing father figure in Stiles' life.

"I'm not the person you need to apologise to. You need to try, Sheriff. You need to catch up on all the moments you missed!"

"I do. I really do. You can sit with him, if you want...I need to shower, and clean up."

"Yes! Yes. I'm free for the day, so it's fine. I'll make sure one of the doctors contacts you if he wakes up."

"Thank you..." The Sheriff smiled gruffly, exiting the room in a cowed, quiet manner, leaving Peter to take his place next to the head of the bed.

"C'mon Stiles. Wake up." He gently took the boys loose hand, clasping his own around them, and sapped the pain from him. He could at least help with that...

A weighted sense of dread and guilt lowered itself into Peters' stomach as he watched the sleeping boy confined to the hospital bed. How long, if ever...until he woke up?

This was Peters fault. The Were clasped a weathered hand around his arm, tugging at the elastic band there as if grounding himself against a maelstrom of emotion. A familiar stinging feeling brought pained and wary tears to the man, and silently, he sobbed next to the sleeping boy, eventually falling into a troubled sleep, hunched over in the small uncomfortable seat.

Five hours passed.

Until Peter groggily became aware of a door opening in his peripheral vision, alerting him to a third presence in the cramped room.

"Sheriff?" He rubbed the tiredness out of aching eyes, groggily standing up in alarm and staring at the grimy clock on the wall. "Is something wrong? Shit, how long have I been asleep?"

The Sheriff smile tiredly, sitting in another chair shaking his head listlessly. "Everythings fine. Or, not worse..."

"Oh. Okay. Good."

"Definitely."

The two men eyed one another, unsure of what to say. "I can go?" Peter mumbled.

"Well...I meant to tell you, but I was held up. There was an emergency at the station...I have to go back." The Sherriff frowned awkwardly, aware of peters disapproving glance.

"I can stay."

"Thanks. I can pick you up something to eat?"

"Please."

Then, Stiles father left again, unsure of when he'd return, and so, so ashamed. But he didn't go back. Work was a priority...Stiles was okay with Peter! But not forever.

Behind him, Peter stood up to open an aged, cranky window, welcoming the fresh midnight air in the dusty room. He'd stay for Stiles. For as long as he neede him too. But was that pushing John away?

As he sank back into the rickety hospital chair, his ear pricked up, and he immediately scrambled again, painfully aware of Stiles quickening heartbeat...he was waking up!

"Stiles?! Are you..are you okay?"

The pale boy sat up, sweat glistening on the agitated skin, and stared at Peter, his eyes full of fear and rage. Peter stared, aghast, unsure of why Stiles was so startled, but ready to apologise with all his might.

"He...he took them..." Stiles hiccuped, before immediately collapsing into full-body tremors.

Peter raced to the boy's side, putting nervous, yet firm hands on slender shoulders, ready to comfort him from the apparent revelation he had had. Suprise flooded through him as Stiles wilted under his hold, fainting, the look of fear sliding off of his face into a gaping, dead expression. He was gone. Again.

The older Were gently laid Stiles back onto the bed, running out of the room to inform a nurse of his progress, yet he reeled from the confusing sentence Stiles had uttered...Who took who? Beacon Hills was once again shrouded in mystery and pain.


	8. So He Had Thought

Two hours passed in a flurry of Peter contacting everyone he thought might be able to help Stiles, but nobody could. The boy had abruptly woken, then fainted, and had since been asleep, a restless, sick slumber that plagued Peter with worry and confusion...when repeated to The Sherriff, what Stiles had said still made little to no sense. The only plausible option was to wait for Stiles to wake up again, hopefully, this time for a while longer.

Another seven hours and thirty-six minutes passed: frantic calls and angry shouting, obsessive anxiety. Peter, joined now by the boy's father spent this time pouring over a million ways to analyse what he said, but neither could fathom what it meant.

But, finally, Stiles woke up.

As he woke from a groggy, dull slumber, he gazed at Peter sleeping fitfully by his side. It took him a few seconds to register the situation, and the events returned to him in a torrent of pain and fear. And with it, the return of new-found memories had come.

Stiles slowly brought a shaky hand to tentatively rest on the back of his head, his increasing heart only slowing slightly when he realised there was no injury. But fast, sharp, panicked breaths overtook his rational thought, and as the memories of only a few weeks ago came back, from behind a veil of deceit and torture. He didn't give up information to the Argents! When this registered in his desperate brain, breaths were harder to control and they rushed out of him, claiming his sanity and waking the stupified wolf next to him.

Peter shot up from his seat, standing next to the boy, desperately wondering what to do to help the gasping, broken child. It was apparent that he was having a panic attack, so Peter urgently placed calm and steady hands in Stiles' and commanded him to listen.

"Breathe in and out, with me...okay? In...and out...In...and out..."

This continued for the next three minutes as the newly awakened Sheriff watched with dismayed, baited breath. Had he made his son feel like...this? He'd failed him. Absorbed in his own realm of emotions, he started to shake, steadying a heavy head with weak arms, deadly aware of his son's breakdown, yet following that with a comparable collapse of sanity.

Peter looked over, his decreasing sympathy for the man flaring in alarm as he saw John shaking, head in hands, the picture of insanity.

"John..." He murmured, still purposely squeezing Stiles' hands to banish the panic attack. "Stiles is awake...you need to speak to him..." All three people in the room suddenly felt the tension, between Stiles and Peter, Stiles and John, and the strained understanding of John and Peter.

"Peter, she was wrong." Stiles' voice rasped through the tangible agitated aura of the room, conjuring the attention of The Sheriff and Peter. The boy looked paler than ever, the healing cut on his arm a scar of remembrance, joined by a look of dawning horror and fear. His ashen features threatened another panic attack, so as the Sheriff looked on confusedly, Peter hurried to rectify their argument.

"Please...It was my fault and...you don't have to explain anything you don't want to for me! I should've trusted you, and...I do now! I trust you over all of that pack." Peter squeezed his hand anxiously, looking yearningly into quivering, wet eyes.

"No...she was so, so wrong..." Stiles' eyes filled with tears as he burrowed back into a fresh, painful memory: a hypothetical knife in his skin.

"...Stiles, what is it?"

"God, Stiles what the hell happened?"

Peter and John's voices chorused agitatedly in the hope of uncovering the source of Stiles worry. But they feared for what they'd find.

Reaching out with the strength of a startled animal of prey, Stiles gripped his fathers and Peters hands, before jolting and shuddering, his eyes rolling back in his head. The two other men sat rigidly, watching, seeing.

It's dark, cold. A figure leans over me and I choke, gasping and sobbing from a raw, pained throat. One figure comes into focus, an older man. He's followed by a younger, quieter man. Gerard Argent. His white hair framing a psychotic, twisted beaming, grin. He's grinning at me.

"Oh, Mr Stillinski, you don't have to do this..." The old man smiled sickeningly, tapping a scalpel threateningly on a metal tray as he watched me amusedly. My bloodied hands scrambled at the cuffs that tied them down, and I whimpered, terrified of the pain I was sure to face, the pain I'd been facing for hours now.

"Are you going to tell me what your little mutt friends are planning?"

The old man sneered as I shake my head vehemently, too exhausted to say a word. As much as my pack has changed lately, I refuse to tell The Argents a thing! I sob as I see him reach for the tray again and watch with wide eyes as he procures a set of tongues and some more scalpels. He leers over me, rife, plagued breath engulfing me in a disgusting cloud of vile smell.

"Luckily for me...I found a...friend...willing to make something up to...extract...the memories from you. The problem for you, my dear, is that you have to stay awake for the entire, rather gruesome procedure. I'd prefer not to dabble in witchcraft, but the situation calls for it. You'll be sorry if you let me down..." He chuckled maniacally as my breathing quickens and I manage to dredge up a single word, over and over again.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no..." I cry out as my tears roll down my face onto the exposed, tortured skin, stinging with unfathomable pain.

I clench my eyes shut, determined not to watch yet horribly aware of the noise emanating from inside me.

"And the beauty of it is...after it's done, there won't be a mark left, and you won't remember a thing!" He snorts, seemingly overwhelmed by the demonic hilarity of his distorted surgeon's scenario.

Agonizing pain rips through my head, starting with my ear then spreading excruciatingly to every corner of my being, like a web clinging to every crevice and crack...I feel my very soul being ripped apart. He takes my memories...staring into the very works of my brain before shoving it back, pretending he'd never touched them, then he took the memory of the intolerable pain he'd created, and all the thoughts that went along with it. They were gone for good...

Or so he had thought.

As the boy pulled the two men out of the flashback, all three gasped, a raw pain-filled chorus, a requiem for the sanity of the boy, and the pain he could now remember.

Millions of thoughts raced through their heads...For Stiles, the terrifying truth that had returned after a similar head injury...the realisation that he had been hurt. Tortured... And all of the agony that came crashing back into his world, a torrent of emotions and panic engulfing him in entirety.

For Peter, the horrifying guilt of not believing the boy, and the immense sympathy after seeing the torture he had endured...all for the pack that now despised him!

For The Sheriff, a profound view of a new, twisted world he never thought he'd find in Beacon Hills, in his very own son. He hurt doubly, infinitely, for his sons remembered pain, for not being there to talk to him...and the intense realisation that the black and white world he was living in was now a sickening technicolour showing.

They had all been lied to, and silently, they clung to each other, unwilling to breach the event that had been uncovered...but pulling at the others like driftwood after a sunken boat. So, so much was not what it seemed to be.


	9. He Was Safe

A week had passed, a fact unknown to Stiles, who had resided in the musty sheets of his bed, frequently visited by Peter and more scarcely by his father. Here, for the majority of his days, he stayed...Only leaving to eat the bare necessities and to use the nearby bathroom.

Peter made sure to visit often, as he grew more and more worried about the weakening mental health of the boy after the realization of such a horrifying event. On countless occasions, the Were had seen him clutching scrabbling fingers to the base of his head, perhaps as a coping mechanism, or maybe the confusion had forced exhausted thoughts to badger away at him wondering where the pain and its marks had gone.

Though The Sheriff had tried innumerable times, Stiles refused to accept his medication, so the ADHD prescription lay ignored on the desk. Shivers wracked his bony form, a sheen of sweat enunciating the emotional fever the boy was trapped in. The sheets were beginning to smell, the scent of pain, sickness and sweat a maddening pulse affecting the entirety of the house. Everyone was affected.

He yearned to ask, but John was terrified to enquire Peter about the bizarre flashback he witnessed, and how exactly he was pulled into it. The answer, however, came incredibly confusingly from the local vet: Dr Deaton. As the Sheriff became more entrenched in his job- as if using exhaustion as an excuse to forget about Stiles- he found himself dropping an injured K9 off at the clinic. What greeted him perplexed him a deal more than the original events had done.

Deaton regarded the dog, closely, silently. Finally looking up at the Sheriff standing impatiently in front of him. His eyes unveiled no secrets to the thoughts within, yet bestowed the target of his gaze with a sense of unadulterated unease.

"Your son, Mr Stilinski." Johns' head snapped up...a confused, wary glare greeting a cool, icy stare. He straightened his back, flaring up as if ready to defend his offspring from a flurry of unknown attacks.

"I heard what happened."

"...From who? What do you know?" He challenged the vet, scared to find out what the other man knew.

Ignoring the question, Deaton carried on smoothly. "My sincerest wishes to Stiles, I hope he recovers soon."

"How did it happen?" His broken voice cracked, wariness turning to desperation in the face of a knowledgeable source.

"Your son has a spark, Sheriff Stilinski."

After much interrogation and despondent pleading, John couldn't extract another word from the vet regarding Stiles. So he left, with a healthy dog, but a newly refreshed sense of confusion, fear and emptiness.

Returning home in the early stages of the next morning felt like a curse to John, a wave of tired depression hitting him on the welcome mat. Discarding his keys, he collapsed onto the sofa, fully aware he would be on his way again soon to go back to the station, so he slept fitfully. Tossing and turning despondently, his thoughts echoed that of Peters: Stiles. Stiles! How the hell could they help?

Two hours and nineteen minutes after he fell asleep, John woke up. He stretched restless limbs, their shifting muscles writhing under his skin. After some debate, he texted Peter:

"Do you by any chance know what a Spark is? The vet said some cryptic nonsense about Stiles. -J"

Quickly, he got a reply. And not one he expected, but one he was sincerely relieved to receive.

"Yes, I do. It would make a lot of sense actually, it was probably the reason Stiles was able to subconsciously show us his flashback. -P"

"What is a Spark? -J"

"I can come over around midday and talk to you, and maybe Stiles, I'll explain everything I know. -P"

"Thank you. -J"

So it was arranged. Hesitantly, John made his way upstairs, to sleep in his bed. The room looked unused, and it spoke nothing but the truth. Making a detour to Stiles room, he stood watching the boy for a few seconds, before reaching down to firmly kiss his forehead, before muttering a reassuring whisper.

"I love you kiddo. So much. And I won't let you do this to yourself."

He stood up, and made his way slowly to his beckoning bed, and slept deeply, for what was left of the early morning. Things would change! He thought, and that made him take to slumber with ease, the stress of overworking and his mourning son seeping out of clenched fists, dissipating in an unconscious bliss.

For the first time in a very long while, The Sheriff woke up, slowly, thankfully and pleasantly. The sound of early rising birds sifted through closed windows as if calling him to open himself up, to spill new light on the situation. So he did. Cautious optimism opened up dusty windows, made a ruffled bed, and a steaming, edible breakfast.

When he was satisfied by his work, he smiled slowly, gazing at the spread, before making the journey to his son's room to rise him once and for all to join the world again.

Gently shaking lax shoulders, he bribed the slowly mending boy out of his fort of blankets, tempting him with the aroma of fresh bacon and cooked eggs. John was ready to try. For himself, hor his son, and for his wife. That's what she'd want, and it shamed him to think of how badly he'd been failing her. So he made a promise on that bright, sunny day to never put his job before his family. The Stilinski's would always come through.

So tentative happiness crept its way back to Stiles' heart as he sat eating breakfast...not alone! Quietly and jokingly, he chastised his father for eating too much meat, but he was happy. So, so happy.

Now all he needed was one more person. Peter. The thought arrived out of the blue, shocking Stiles and making him worried he was becoming too attached...but the man had become a permanent fixture in his life, whether he knew it or not! He wanted him to stay.

The Sheriff beamed, sure his son was back...Back from a period of being dead, depressed and scarred. But broken minds cannot be fixed that quickly. He knew all too well how long the mending process would take, and the number of relapses that were almost surely going to appear. But for one blessed, happy morning, they laughed, smiled and felt real. Stiles felt alive! He'd been taken away from the dull monochrome of his slump and he was there! With his dad! He felt soft, still tender as if anything happening right now had the potential to break it, but the moment never came. He began to mend, a steady process, where he felt shrouded and safe. He was safe.


	10. Dad Jokes

John opened the door, his eyes drawn immediately to the hunched over, fatigued figure of Peter Hale: The man to answer all of his questions.

"Sherriff."

"Peter. It's John."

"John." Peter intoned, waiting restlessly for Stiles' father to move aside so he could speak to Stiles.

The relationship between the two had grown strained as they waited for the pale, broken boy to come back to them, and the tension had only increased after his awakening, jealousy ripened Johns mind and soured his view of the Were. He'd been more of a father to Stiles when he'd needed it the most, and that was something John wanted to forget...

As the Sheriff ushered Peter inside, he worried for what he would find out, the world that his son had apparently been hiding from him. Fear overtook anger, but an overwhelming sense of protectiveness spurred him into the living room, he wanted to protect his son...be the best father he could be. John knew his life was changing now, perhaps for the worst, or maybe for the better. Only, it could bring his small family together. Unmeasurable grief and joint survival bonded the two, a paternal link between the two: so, so much love.

Stepping wearily into the room, John sat next to his circumspect son, who shuffled to the side, as if cautious of contact. The Sheriff looked at Peter, who sat awkwardly across from him in the cramped armchair. Now was the time for answers.

"So. What do you have to say?" John accusingly stared at Peter, grimly watching him shifting restlessly in the chair.

"Well, I..." The man looked hopelessly at Stiles, asking silently if Stiles wanted John to know everything. Stiles nodded. He was scared, more scared than ever before, but he didn't want to lie to his Dad...not anymore.

Peter started again, purposely coughing, before telling the Sheriff everything that had happened. The pack, Cora, The Argents, Stiles being banished, how the two met, and what the flashback had shown.

Two hours passed, The Sheriff asked questions, listened, aghast, and cried furiously for all the wrongs against his son. When Peter showed John his claws, he sat back down from his pacing, resigned to the realisation that this was real. This crazy, supernatural world had clashed with his black and white one, and finally, he was seeing in a sickening technicolour.

Stiles sat silently for most of this, but occasionally, the two older men could hear his hitching breaths as the re-telling opened old wounds.

"...but what did Stiles' flashback mean?" John was numb, shocked beyond relief, yet, like his son, was still searching without abandon for the answers he wanted so much.

Peter looked at Stiles, smiling for the first time that day.

"It means, Mr Stilinski...that your son is a spark."

Stiles' eyes widened, his quiet breaths stopping momentarily, as he took in the news. He had, of course, read extensively on the subject in the Hale library- which renewed a pang of pain- so he knew that a spark was a human, of course, he was human, that had a small 'spark' of magic inside them, often a product of great trauma. Stiles had enough of that.

John narrowed his eyes, squinting suspiciously at the Were. "What the hell is a spark?" He growled, losing his patience when he saw Peters widening grin.

"Someone who unknowingly developed a 'spark' due to an obsessive amount of trauma. Magic." Stiles interrupted Peter before he could utter a word, his monotone voice changing to a wondering one...He had magic! Him! Stiles Stilinski. He smiled, a small, content smile, because deep inside of him, there was an ember glowing through the deep, dark smoke of his feeling, and now he knew it was there, maybe he could turn it into the fire it had the potential to be!

"Yes. Magic." Peter smiled encouragingly at Stiles, the boy had gone through so much and maybe the appearance of the unexpected spark could ignite the boy's passion for life again.

After much more questioning, interrogating, and confusion later, the three men felt much more at ease: The Sheriff knew what his son had been hiding for so long...werewolves...Fairies...Peter could sense the flicker of gratitude from John, and he was beginning to help mend Stiles! And Stiles. He was a spark! That was one hell of a development...

Stiles had emerged from his cocoon of bedding, now sitting straight on the sofa, tentatively smiling at his dad and Peter, the latter making his heart warm, and something small blossom inside his ribcage, he wasn't scared to feel anymore.

As John disappeared through the door to create a- no doubt unsavoury, but created with pride- lunch, Stiles surged up off the sofa, launching himself at Peter, who caught him, astounded but greatly pleased at the beaming grin on his face. He buried his face in Stiles' neck, scenting the boy and reassuring him. He was pack now. Both of the Stilinskis were.

"I'm a spark? I'm a spark!" Stiles' muffled voice reached Peters' ears, and he smiled happily.

"You're amazing."

Stiles stiffened against Peter, who immediately wondered if his spur of the moment comment was too much, but was relieved when Stiles melted against him.

"You are.." Stiles pushed Peter away before smiling at Peter through bleary, tear-stained eyes. "You really are amazing, Peter Hale..."

John emerged into the room, balancing two trays precariously on shaken hands, staring at Peter and Stiles as they hugged each other, coughing loudly, he smirked as the two sprung guiltily away from each other,

"I made lunch."

"Thanks, Pops."

"Maybe I should go..." Peter awkwardly shifted, turning towards Stiles, but looking at the door.

"No! Uhh, no..." Stiles blushed, his red face observed by the knowing Sheriff.

"Yes, please stay, Peter." John pushed one of the trays toward Peter, before leaving the room to fetch the third. Stiles watched him, disgruntled.

Peter sat down next to Stiles, angling his body to face Stiles.

"You...you do know you're amazing with or without a spark, right?" Peter looked intently at Stiles, who looked away, red returning to his cheeks.

"Hmm..." He stared at the ground, unbelieving and adamant he had no self-worth, unaware that Peter believed the exact opposite.

"It's the truth. A spark is great, I get that, but you are so, so much without that! Being human isn't something bad. All packs rely on and need Humans to ground the Weres. And...If we're going to make this pack work...we need you." Peter earnestly searched Stiles face, looking for the doubt and disbelief he wanted to get rid of.

Stiles looked astounded, but grinned, his tired eyes brightening. "Yes! Oh my fucking god...yes! Yes, we can be a pack!" He laughed, the disbelief making his joy ten times better.

"Language..." The Sheriff muttered mildly, but the comment lacked any real heat. Stiles turned to him, grinning.

"Sorry, Pops...Or should I say, Packmate."

John chuckled, hiding his surprise beneath the disgruntled humour. "Dad is fine, y'know"

"I'm just happy!" Stiles pushed playfully at his dad, nimbly avoiding a smack as he stole the chocolate bar off of his plate.

The Sheriff sighed, and said, deadpan: "Hi, Happy...I'm-"

"NO" Stiles screeched, hastily plastering his hands over John's mouth. "Wowww, dad. You promised no dad jokes!"

The three laughed, once again filling the household with joyous laughter, and Peter, Stiles and John felt like they'd all got a family again.


	11. Quieter

Five days had passed since the newly developed Hale pack was formed, and for all involved, things had only gotten better. The Stilinski household had become a pack house, and the three congregated there together as often as possible.

Stiles went back to school. It was hard, and seeing the pack every day reminded him daily of the old pack that pushed him away. They sneered as he walked past them down daunting corridors, but as Peter gradually managed to make him realise: They weren't worth his time or his worries.

But, in the early hours of the morning, after marathons of gaming and hurried homework, the emotions came back. The raw pain that broke him crept back into his life, and sometimes he wondered if it ever really left. Why did they presume that he'd told the Argent man everything! He did all he could to stop him...but yet again, it wasn't enough. At these times, swaddled in layers of doubt and anguish, Stiles struggled so, so much, and he never told a soul.

Fighting thoughts swept over him: a vast sea of stormy depression that sunk his happiness and left him gasping for breath, his tears soaking his sheets that didn't dry until dawn.

In the morning, when he trudged downstairs, the false bravado slipped back on, but neither Peter or John fell for it. They could see him hurting, and they knew they had to help him. It was a slow process, they knew, but they were getting there. Stiles got out of bed every day, he did that! So John plastered a determined smile on his face, and Peter hugged the boy every day as he stepped through the door, and they tried to fix the darkness that made its home inside him.

Stiles ate his breakfast, murmuring appreciation at an amused Peter. The meals he made were far better than any the Sheriff had made, but Stiles wouldn't ever dream of telling him.

"I managed to contact a former colleague of mine yesterday regarding your spark."

Stiles perked up, and he looked at Peter, now he was interested.

"...and what did they say?"

"She'll be coming to visit. She says she can train you, I trust her more than Deaton, he's unreliable...and with the Hale pack."

Stiles averted his eyes, staring dolefully into his plate, before brightening up. Someone coming to train him? In magic? It was happening! He eagerly nodded at Peter, ignoring Johns doubtful expression.

"Her name's Nadia. She helped us with supplies. She can teach you everything you need to know, I'm cashing in on a favour...so be grateful." Peter smirked jokingly, snorting as he watched Stiles laugh delightedly and tap energetic fingers on the table.

"I hate to...put a damper on things...but is this safe? There's no chance of injury, right?" The Sheriff clasped weathered hands on the table, worry etching itself in deep lines across his face. The death of his wife made him wary, he didn't want his son anywhere that was dangerous and he'd try his hardest to protect him.

"...There is no way he can hurt himself, as long as he doesn't hurt himself..." Peter stared at John, before turning sternly to Stiles, who had gone pale. The Sheriff looked relieved, but Peter maintained eye contact with the boy.

"I won't!" Stiles said hurriedly, before swinging his school bag over his shoulder and striding towards the door. He didn't want to continue the conversation.

"I should...I should get to school. Bye pops, bye Peter!"

Peter walked after him. "Nadia will be here when you get back, so try not to be late okay? Do you need a ride?"

Stiles stopped, suddenly aware of the flaw in his plan. "...Yes."

Peter smirked, before throwing him the keys to his car. "I'll follow."

As Stiles wandered off to the car, John turned to Peter. He wanted to make sure, above everything, that his son was safe.

"He'll be alright?"

"He will." Peter smiled, before putting a reassuring hand on the father's shoulder, then left.

The Sheriff sat back down and frowned, unsure of if Stiles was protected. He would try, but he needed to make sure that when he wasn't there, that Peter was. A small frown worked its way onto his face, marring the usual easy-going smile. Was someone lying to him?

Outside, the car revved its sleek engine, before smoothly vacating the space, and taking off down the rural road. Stiles excitedly bobbed in his seat, unable to sit still.

"Can you tell me more about her? Is she a spark? What can she do? I-" Stiles stopped for a quick breath and sighed crossly as Peter laughed at him.

"Well, Nadia is a Druid, she's married to an empath so she knows a lot about those too. Of course, that doesn't affect you, but she's a very intelligent woman. I think you'll get on." He smiled at Stiles who's cheeks reddened and he goofily beamed.

"Seriously. I can't thank you enough, Peter...You've done a hell of a lot and I don't know how I can repay you, but I'll try!"

Peter focused on the road, before blurting out a hurried comment. "You repay me just by being here..." Stiles gaped, before laughing delightedly, poking at Peters scruff cheeks.

"Is that a blush I see? You'll never live this down!" He chuckled, and his heart fluttered at the knowledge he made the Were happy. He made Stiles happy too. So, so happy.

"And...you make me happier."

"Nope. You make me happier."

Stiles narrowed his eyes...game on! "No that's you!"

"You!"

"You!"

Glee filled the car as the two chorused happy compliments, filling the car ride and it seemed like the ride was only a few minutes long. Peter leaned over, opening the car door for Stiles. He looked at him, smiling and ushering him out of the car.

"Good luck with school, Stiles."

"Good luck with that car ride you've got to make alone, Peter." He smirked, gazing wistfully at the seat. "Maybe I should come with you?" He looked hopefully at Peter.

Those puppy eyes won't work, you'll do amazingly." The two men stared at each other, sharing a silent moment of happiness and hope. Maybe things could get better.

"Bye..."

"Until later."

"Until later." Stiles grimaced, before heading determinedly into the opposing building.

The car ride home did seem a lot quieter without Stiles.


	12. Deserving Better

Stiles tapped impatient fingers against the ungiving desk, blotting out the droning voice of Mr Harris in an attempt to make the hour pass quicker. Jumping violently, Stiles jerked upright as the teacher barked his name, turning red as the class snickered.

"Mr Stillinski. Do you care to tell me why you think it is acceptable to sleep in my lesson?"

"I wasn't. I just...wasn't listening?"

His plea ended on a questioning note, people around him snorting at his attempt to avoid the professor's wrath. The teacher's eyes narrowed, and Stiles internally groaned, willing the man to somehow know all of the reasons he could get a detention.

"Perhaps you'll be more inclined to listen in a detention."

Stiles groaned.

"However, I'm sure you'll be able to take this warning seriously. I won't be so accommodating next time."

A grin spread across Stiles' face, and he nodded quickly, contentedly sitting up, incredulous but immensely thankful for the unlikely turn of events.

"Definitely! For sure."

"Hmmm." Harris scowled, his usual facade slipping back on, but it seemed like life was finally being kind to Stiles Stilinski.

As he eased back into his seat, he once again stiffened, deadly aware of the quiet growling emanating from the Were behind him. Jackson. Stiles hurriedly moved his chair as much as he could, but the space between the two was smaller than ever. Anger and fear sliced through him, and he felt hot air on his neck.

"Fucking kill yourself you worthless piece of scum..." The Were was growling now, enraged at Stiles turn of luck. Shocked gasps were heard around the room, and all eyes drew to Stiles: quivering and terrified, and Jackson: trembling and enraged.

Mr Harris stalked over, grabbing Jackson by the arm and practically bellowing with anger.

"How dare you! This is absolutely unacceptable Whittemore! Get yourself out of my classroom right now! I have never in all of my years of teaching dealt with something so disgusting!"

As the Were shook with rage, a cold, clear cough sounded from the other side of the classroom. Lydia. She gazed coolly at Jackson, grounding him, and yet still showing her distaste at the boy he attacked, yet again blaming the victim for the criminal's crime.

Mr Harris was practically vibrating with anger and violently pointed to the door again. Jackson trooped out.

"And you, Martin! Do not get involved in an issue with another student, unless you want to face their consequences with them! You'll be in detention with Mr Whittemore as well!" The man muttered angrily, watching the girl stiffly exit the classroom. The look of shock on her face was foreign, and it wasn't something Lydia Martin had often.

Stiles gleefully smirked, hiding his grin as Harris returned to his desk, but his mood remained elevated for the rest of the lesson.

As the class herded out of the door, Harris called Stiles to stay behind. The boy shifted uncomfortably, aware of the man's scrutinising look.

"If there is an issue with any of the students in this school, I hope you realise you can talk to any of the members of staff here."

Stiles blinked, shocked. "Uh, yeah? Thanks..."

Harris nodded to the door, sitting down and leafing through the work piled on his desk. Stiles left, bewildered at the strange behaviour of the professor, had he had some sort of personality transplant? But the thought slipped his mind as he headed for the parking lot, Peter was waiting, with the promise of someone who knew about his spark!

He spotted the car, excitedly running over, ignoring his bemused classmates. Peter grinned, holding the door open for Stiles. As he ambled over to the driver's seat, Stiles gleefully recounted what happened in Harris' class. Peter laughed, delighted at how happy Stiles was, the boy he knew before was coming back.

"I can't help but feel like they had it coming..." Stiles laugh turned into a frown, the happiness slipping off his face. Peter reassuringly smiled, squeezing his shoulder.

"They did." He wanted Stiles to be comfortable without the pack, and he'd do anything to help that. "It's your turn for the music...please don't make my ears bleed..." Peter grinned playfully, snorting at Stiles excited squeak. He scrabbled for his phone, linking the device to the sleek, elite speakers.

"Bring Me The Horizon?" Stiles asked Peter, who hummed, debating.

"Sure. Blasphemy?" The two smirked at each other, and Stiles hit play. The song seemed fitting for what had happened, the pack really did have hell to pay.

Peter revved the engine, the two leaving the parking lot, unaware of the glaring pack behind them. As the music changed, lighthearted and happy, so did Stiles. He hummed along, tapping energetic fingers along the upholstery of the vehicle as Peter sung along. Stiles turned to him, watching happily as the man let go of his fears, in the action of saving Stiles, he was saving himself.

They'd moved on.

But the pack were puzzled, why was Peter still talking to Stiles after he found out what he'd done? For the first time since they left him behind, a seed of doubt was planted in them, had Stiles really betrayed them? The sour feeling of loss made them angry, twitching eyes glowering at passers-by, who steered clear of them. Darkness had reached the Hale pack. But all their wounds were inflicted by themselves.

Boyd watched silently, his stomach churning in a bitter pit of pain, suddenly unsure if he was fooling himself. They never saw Stiles tell Gerard anything, but surely that's the only way he could've gotten the information he had? Erica clasped her fingers through his, the two watching the retreating vehicle.

"Fuck Stiles." She muttered, her childish actions banishing Boys humanity, and he gripped her slender fingers, grunting in agreement as he glared at the car.

Stiles didn't deserve the pack.

The pack deserved better.

He repeated this mantra as the group slouched to different cars, muttering and emanating foul thoughts. The pack deserved better. But did it?


	13. Nadia

Stiles bounced excitedly in his seat, straining against the seatbelt confining him to Peters car as they neared his house and the promise of someone new, a druid, Nadia. Peter looked over at Stiles, smiling at the excited spark as he looked out of the windows.

"Your father and Nadia are...catching up."

As he said it, Peters' voice turned doubtful, and Stiles groaned.

"He hasn't scared her off, has he?" Though his tone was lighthearted, he wondered if the Sheriff's cross-examination had made the druid leave before they'd even met.

"Round one of the interrogation is going smoothly." Peter grinned. "Nadia's not one to be deterred easily." The statement made Stiles mind conjure up many more possibilities of the woman who had been tasked with his supernatural education, and a bolt of nerves made him frown and slide further into the seat.

Peter slowed the car and pulled into an empty space. He looked over at his companion and reached a reassuring hand over to squeeze his shoulder. Stiles' eyes met his as he gave him a wavering smile, things would be okay. The two strengthened each other, and subconsciously, they knew that they made the other better.

Peter pulled away, and left the car, shortly followed by a nervous Stiles. They trudged up the path, opening the door and stop, pleasantly surprised to hear the Sheriff laughing and the sound of another woman laugh drifting through the walls. Stiles slows, a small bittersweet smile appearing on his face. Peter faces him, realising it had been a long time since the presence of a woman had been familiar in the Stilinski Household since...Claudia Stilinski.

Peter wraps is arms around the silent boy, pulling him into his chest, hiding him from the emotions that brought him back to the death of his mother.

"You can do this, Stiles." He faces him, looking into his eyes. Stiles blinks, before sheepishly coming back to the present day. The boy leans his head into the Were, letting out a long, haggard breath.

"I can. Yeah..." He smiles, his mouth wobbles, but Peter knows he's okay now. He's okay.

Smiling broadly, Peter nudges Stiles towards the lounge. "Let's go see Nadia then, huh?" Stiles grins, brightening up.

"Yeah!"

They walk into the room, drawing the attention of both John and a lady, Nadia? Stiles smiles shyly, his crooked grin framing blushing cheeks as he shifts, unsure of what to say.

The woman is tall, taller than him, Stiles realises. Her corkscrew hair frames her face, her caramel skin contrasting beautifully against the muted colours of her clothes. The woman is breathtaking. Stiles stares.

Nadia smiles, she walks over to Peter, swiftly hugging him and looking over the man. Stiles raised a hand, running fingers through his unruly hair, surprised at the display of affection.

"It's good to see you, Peter!" She grinned, pearly white teeth glinting in the dusky light. Peter smiled, nodding amiably. She turned to Stiles, her intelligent eyes sweeping over the frail form of the boy she'd been tasked with educating on the likes of his magic.

"And, Stiles?" She smiled at him, gauging his reaction, analysing the boy.

"...Hey!" Stiles awkwardly waves a bony hand, and suddenly lets out a tentative noise of surprise when she hugs him. He returns the embrace slowly, a grin spreading across his face, Nadia seems great.

She pulls away, twiddling her thumbs through her knitted jumper, before sitting on a chair, turning to Stiles. He sits meekly next to her, his nerves showing again. But things were okay, right? Stiles looked at Peter, who nodded encouragingly.

"So, I gather I'm here to teach you about your spark, right?"

"Yeah! And, I have so much to ask! Peter told me you're a druid, are you a spark? I read before that some people are both? Or is this kinda thing limited to one...talent only? Can Weres be sparks too? "

Nadia scrunches her eyes, laughing and looking down at her lap. "Trust me. There is a lot to go over" She looks seriously over at Stiles. "I've never taught someone like this before...but I think we can get on well!" She drums excited fingers on the arm of the couch, reaching into her bag that lies open at her feet.

She fumbles through it, Stiles watching, fascinated until she brings out a glass jar. It fits easily into the palm of her hands, and she weighs it carefully. Stiles' eyes widen, the dark powder inside bringing back memories of everything that happened in the Hale Pack.

"Mountain Ash." She confirms his thoughts, giving him the vial to observe. Peter looks on sharply, intrigued, but wary of the powder's potential.

"It's a great place to start when you're building on your spark, you've manipulated it before, right?"

Stiles nods, fascinated by it, before turning back to Nadia. She looks pleased.

"It's fairly easy to move, so if you want, we can tae=ke this someplace outside to get started?" The Druid lets the question hang in the air, mischievously grinning as she waits for the pack's approval.

"I'd love to!" Stiles beams, looking eagerly at her, sharing her enthusiasm. Peter nudges John, and the two stand up. Stiles looks at them, suddenly unsure and confused by their actions. He furrows his eyebrows, a sense of nervousness reappearing,

"Where are you going Pops, Peter?"

John smiles at his son for the first time in the encounter, and he strides towards him, gripping him in a firm, convincing hug.

"I need to get back to the station, and Peter wanted to meet the guys, so I thought we'd leave you two to it?" He turned to Nadia as if seeking permission for the lesson to commence.

"Sounds good to me...Stiles?" Stiles looks at the ground, before steadily breathing, a large gulp sticking in his throat.

"Yes. I'll be fine." He smiles at Peter and John and stands up, hugging the two briefly before escaping into the hall. John chuckled, Peter, looking forlornly after him. He would be fine without them, he was healing.

Five minutes later, Nadia and Stiles trudge through the denser part of the forest, searching for an ideal place to start the magical lessons Stiles was promised. Nadia explained that nature would enhance his spark, solidify the power.

"The Nemeton will assist you, and maybe you'll meet some of the entities and creatures out here too! You just have to accept their energy as your own, its a cycle kinda thing, ya know?"

Stiles widened his eyes as if a vast new world has been opened, and he nods furiously, speeding up his walk, he wanted to practice...as soon as possible!

Nadia chuckles.

"I'm glad it's you I'm helping, you seem like a great kid, I feel like you can be powerful if you harness it right. But don't let it get to your head!" She adds sarcastically, watching Stiles grunt in agreement.

A few moments later, they emerge into a clearing, with ethereal plants framing the ground, the sun shifting through thatches of trees, creating an intricate design of light and shadow that was thrown across the leaves and moss.

"Perfect!" Stiles declares, Nadia nods agreeably, plopping her bag down, and unearthing the jar again. She lets it fall into her hand, and Stiles watches, his mouth agape as she winds the ash through her fingers, like a magnet attracting its opposite.

"So I need you to concentrate, counting down from ten helps...I'm going to lay this on the ground and you need to imagine it as a liquid form and warp it. Imagine it doing your bidding like you can pick it up and move it any way you will..."

She gently places the ash on the ground, backing away slightly, before concentrating on Stiles.

He stares intently at the powder, before shutting his eyes and lets his power shift through him, the powder lifts up as he looks up again, and he watches it settle in a perfect circle around him. Beaming, he laughs incredulously, looking at Nadia delightedly.

"Whaddya think?" She hummed approvingly, clapping quietly.

"You're pretty good at the basics, huh?" Stiles looks smug.

"We can test out some other tips and tricks, see where you feel most comfortable!"

So for the next hour, Nadia and Stiles practised with vigour, covering a simple base of all of the elements of magic. Stiles was doing well!

As they trudged back to the Stilinski Household, Stiles sighed happily. Nadia looked at him, wondering about his story. Why would such a promising spark have such a small pack?

But the thought was pushed to the back of her head as they emerged into the lit house. Entering out of the now dark outside world felt invigorating, and the two happily settled into the couches in the living room. Peter and John came in the latter scanning Stiles for any kind of damage and felt relieved after seeing none.

"Nadia is sleeping down on the couch okay for tonight, we can get the spare room sorted tomorrow, I hope it's not too uncomfortable..." The Sheriff shifted uncomfortably, feeling guilty for the lack of organisation. But Nadia smiled rushing to assure him.

"No, it's all good! I don't mind at all!" So the Sheriff smiled, relieved and pleased. This idea wasn't as bad as he had imagined, if not better! tiles said goodnight, hugging John and Nadia, before dragging Peter off to his room.

"No funny business up there!" John teased.

Stiles spluttered, mortified, before deadpan saying "Haha." Fathers.

Peter snorted, following Stiles up the narrow staircase. "Ignore him..." Stiles muttered embarrassedly."

"Sure..." Peter smirked. Stiles playfully scowled at him, then flopped onto his bed, patting the spot next to him. Peter sat down, sobering up shortly.

Stiles looked at him bewildered. "What's wrong?"

"Lydia messaged me again."

Stiles stiffened, turning away from the Were. "Oh."

"She wanted to know why I'm still talking to you." Peter grabbed Stiles hand, looking into his eyes earnestly. Stiles shifted away, his breath hitching.

"And what did you say?"

"I haven't replied."

Stiles sagged against Peter, temporarily relieved, the man hadn't told the pack what really happened. Peter looked at him again, rushing to comfort him. "Shall I tell them?"

The boy looked panicked, seizing up and frantically batting his hands.

"No! No...no please don't, Peter..."

"I won't." He smiles at him, a soft reassuring smile to ground him, his secrets were safe. But why didn't he want them to know?

"If you don't mind me asking..." Stiles looked wary. "Why can't they know?"

Stiles looked ashamed, then scared, the knot returning with a vengeance to his stomach. "I...I...What if they find out, and they still don't care?" His voice cracked, and his lips started to wobble. "I know I shouldn't care anymore, but the thought of them...not caring...even after they know...that would hurt. A lot..."

Peter lets out a soft "Oh..." It made sense. It was normal not to have recovered yet, it's okay to need some time to let go.

"I promise, little spark, I won't speak to any of the bastards again, and I won't say anything about what happened." He kissed the boys forehead, leaning in and leaning their faces together, a moment of quiet intimacy to combat Stiles hitching sobs.

Stiles hugged the man soundly until they fell asleep, tangled together on his cramped bed, but all the space in the world was worthless to them that night, they got through it, and that's what mattered.


	14. Moosleute

Peter opens bleary eyes, sleepily surveying the room he woke up in...Stiles room. The few seconds in which he took to figure out where he was were enough to wake his companion, who drowsily stretched his sore limbs.

"Stiles." Peters unused gravelly voice seemed to wake Stiles up completely, and the boy bolted upright, detangling the twisted sheets the two were in. He looked alarmed, a blush working its way onto his cheeks.

Peter smirked, twitching his half-closed eyes to the frantic boy who flails out of the small bed and bangs into the doorframe cursing wildly. As the Sheriff's mild protest drifts down the hallway, Stiles trips over his desk, to the amusement of Peter, before flopping in a chair to stare dolefully at the floor.

Stretching slowly, Peter feels the tens eyes on him. As he looks back at him, Stiles smiles, a quiet, happy smile. He's content.

"Morning," Peter says quietly.

"...Good Morning, Peter." Stiles cracks a grin, crawling back into the warm bed, ignoring Peters disgruntled face. "We can do this. We're pack." Stiles looks up at the Were, seeking his approval. Peter nods happily. "Yeah," Stiles reassures himself. They're pack. It's a pack thing! Nothing more.

It takes another hour and a half for the two to properly wake up, then they talk for another thirty minutes. About their pack, the Hale pack, Nadia, school, everything bothering them.

A calming silence follows, and the two meld closer to the mattress, and to each other.

"Pack life is great," Stiles mumbles.

"Uhuh." Peter hums.

"Like, a real pack. Not like...Derek and his. They're all so...vengeful. Everyone hates everyone. I hate it. I hate them sometimes." His voice quivers, and he grips at his pillows, wet eyes staring at the ceiling. Peter tightens his arm around him and burrows into the pile of the duvet.

"I...I sometimes hate Derek too. He's changed so much. I hate who he is now, he hates me...I remind him of the past." His voice is strained, and Stiles turns around, wide eyes staring at the Were. Peter brings an absent-minded arm to the mark left on the side of his face: Burns.

"It seems like we both have a vendetta against that pack then, huh?"

Peter chuckles sourly.

"And..." Stiles hesitates. "I think...I think you're beautiful." He blushes, averting his eyes. Peter smiles sadly.

"I appreciate the thought, I really do. But nothing about this-" He roughly jerks his head towards himself "-is pretty." The Were glowers at the floor, avidly avoiding Stiles' gaze, seemingly fascinated by the patterns on the carpet.

Glaring at him, Stiles sits up, taking Peters face in his hands. He tries to move away, but the teen keeps persisting, he's angry now.

"Don't let that fucking fire define you, Peter! You are you, not a shadow of your trauma. Just because its there doesn't mean it has to overshadow everything you do. You are you. I know. So please, please believe you aren't broken, or unfixable..." His voice cracked. "You're trying to help me, I know you are. But let me help you too okay? Deal?"

He looks desperately into Peters' eyes, seeking the acceptance he knew he needed to find. Peter stared at the floor until the scowl slipped off of his face. "Sure. If that's what you want." Peter mumbled, avoiding Stiles happy gaze. Letting out a content sigh, Stiles settled back into his bedding.

"Thanks, Peter." Twisting around the mound of bedding, Stiles smiled at him. Peter deserved better.

Another twenty minutes pass, until finally, the two drag themselves out of the safe haven of the bedding, trudging down the stairs, heading straight to the plates of food on the kitchen table. Nadia and John exchange a knowing look, smirking at the oblivious couple.

"It's about time you woke up...I was wondering if we'd have to skip practice altogether today." Nadia innocently and belligerently eats her breakfast, grinning as Stiles gasps, choking on his food. He hastily wipes his mouth, ignoring Johns mirth, and quickly hurries to reassure Nadia.

"No, no! There's absolutely no need to do that. It may be...one in the afternoon but, I'm ready! Actually, I'm not so hungry, why not start now?" He eagerly stands up, steadying the carton of milk as he knocks it over in his haste.

Nadia snorts, eyes crinkling and shakes her head. "No, it's fine! You must be hungry, and we've still got a while! I didn't think you two would appreciate the interruption..." She eyes their close proximity and sips her tea. Peter gives her a silent, unimpressed, look and Stiles coughs violently, nearly inhaling his food again.

He stutters, mumbling embarrassedly.

"I'll see you at 2 in the clearing? I have someone for you to meet." She smiles mysteriously, and Stiles' eyes light up, and he nods furiously.

"Yeah!"

The four eat, laughing and joking, oblivious to the stress that weighed their everyday lives down. For once, everyone was happy, healing.

At five past two, Stiles stumbled into the clearing, waving his hands around himself, spluttering madly. Nadia was sitting peacefully on a blanket, accompanied by a small, squat...?

Still picking leaves out of his hair, Stiles doesn't see the figure. "I'm really sorry about being late...I don't know what, but some small and green...things...attacked me in the-" As he toppled over, he spotted the little green person.

"It's...it's one of them! It attacked me! With leaves and dirt and insects!" In outrage, he pointed vehemently at the giggling green child. Suspiciously, he lowered his arm, watching Nadia laugh. She doubled over and placed her hand in the hand of the...thing.

"Nadia, is this the...person you wanted me to meet?"

Nadia nodded, still gasping for breath. She stood up, making her way over to an indignant Stiles.

"Yes...that was part of the training! Don't let it put you off the Mossleute, or moss folk. They're lovely people!"

Stiles stared, unimpressed.

"I was cashing in a favour! They're not violent, they're part of the fae family. Would you like to meet her, properly this time?"

Stiles nodded faintly, wide eyes following the druid. As he sat slowly in front of the plant covered figure, it reached out chubby hands to him, giggling as he gingerly took them. It had the appearance of an elderly, yet also very youthful girl. Its body was covered in lichen and moss. What other things would he see with Nadia? It was sure to be an exciting and profound journey...

"But what did you do? When she attacked?"

Stiles looked at the questioning druid and tugged his hands out of those of the mossleute, settling them in his lap.

"I just kinda...sent out a wave?" She nodded, looking impressed. "I don't know how I did it...I sent out waves of...energy? That moss thing chucked dirt in my face!" Once again he scowled at the child, who grinned innocently at him. "It ran away then."

Nadia laughed delightedly. "That's great, Stiles! I did this to test your instinctive skills, and you've excelled so far! I think I might introduce some more of my friends..." She trailed off thoughtfully.

Stiles backed away hastily. "Maybe in a more civilised way, then?"

She snorted, amiably agreeing with him. "You're...better than you should be, yknow?"

Stiles looked offended.

Hurriedly, she said "No! As in, you're a spark. Sparks can't do what you just described. But you can manipulate mountain ash, and you show a lot of the other traits of one...I don't think you're just a spark, Stiles." He gapes at her, and she slowly smiles at him.

"You mean...Do I have more magic? I'm a spark...and something else?"

"I think so!" Nadia suddenly grins, sitting down excitedly on the blanket. "That's so exciting, I like being a teacher! This is fun."

Stiles snorts, chuckling at her, before turning back to the moss child.

Nadia teaches him about the fae until the sunlight starts to dwindle, and the two leave to go home.

Sitting comfortably on the couch with steaming cups of hot chocolate, Stiles turns to Nadia.

"So, do you think you know what I am?"

Nadia hesitates, humming thoughtfully. "I'm not sure...everyone is different, not a single spark is the same as another, and not a single druid is the same as another, which goes for anything. So I think I'm going to teach you everything I know...everything I can do, not just what a spark could do. We can see what you're able to do, that might narrow it down..."

Stiles silently listens to her proposition, before nodding happily. "I'd love to know it all. I...it feels like I've suddenly been let into an exclusive new world that I wasn't allowed into before. It's great." He smiles at her softly, and she returns it with a sleepy grin.

"Welcome home, hun."


	15. More

Stiles and Nadia trained every day, studying unknown magical creatures, learning the properties and effects of witches potions, and harnessing his powers. Over time, Nadia realised that Stiles was way, way more powerful than any spark she knew. But why? He was definitely a hybrid, he had another form of magic. She hadn't experienced anything like it, and that scared her.

He had finessed skills that had taken her years, and he continued to excel, in witchcraft, potions, and every other kind of magic she had covered. Deciding to wait until the end of his training, Nadia continued to teach Stiles, extending his knowledge, and hers.

As soon as she'd researched a subject to teach him, his ravenous thirst for knowledge consumed them, and somehow, miraculously, he'd mastered it. But the process was fun and exhilarating, and both of them slept with the knowledge that they'd both made a new, good friend.

Sometimes, they stayed in their clearing well after night had fallen, meeting the mysterious, ethereal forces guarding Beacon Hills Forrest. Peter and John came too, and the four created memories lit by candles and framed by the abundance of magical nature twisting through the forest, forming a strong, unbreakable bond, pack. Six months passed with Nadia visiting every few days, but it felt, odd. Seeing her leave after every lesson left a pang in the chest of all the awaiting members, and Nadia felt it too.

On a slow weekend, the four lay silent under the shade of the dense foliage, light dwindling and a cacophony of nightlife greeting their succumbing ears. The smell of damp greenery drifted through the air, and the hum of the animals habituating the forest created a familiar ambience, much preferred by them all to that of the town that remained, miles away. Sitting up slowly, Nadia combed tired fingers through her unruly hair, tugging through the knotted curls in exasperation. Stiles looked up at her worriedly, squinting through the dusky light at her silent frame.

"All good?"

She looked down at him, almost startled by his attention. Crossing her legs, she fiddled nervously in her lap. "Yeah. I am. But...I don't want to leave again." She looked pained, staring at the ground. Stiles eyes widened, and he smiled sadly at her. "I...I'm sorry for getting attached, I'm teaching you, I'm not supposed to befriend you!" She pulled angrily at her shirt and didn't see Stiles hurt look. Peter and John slowly sat up, looking at her now.

"You're, you're attached?" Stiles asked quietly, an incredulous look fleeting across his pale face.

Nadia blushed darkly, looking simply at the floor. "Yeah...I guess I am."

Stiles snorted, shocking her, she watched as his giggles turned into full-blown cackles, and indignantly pushed his shaking body.

"What?" She looked unsure, wondering if she was imagining the friendship she'd developed with him.

"You're attached?" Nadia nodded quietly at him. "So am I! We're friends, Nadia!" Stiles looked incredulously at her again and smiled softly as a small smile worked its way onto her face. "And I don't want you to leave either..."

Nadia hums in agreement. "Thanks." She says sarcastically, but Stiles sees her grin, and he knows she's grateful. "But I don't want to keep flitting between you guys and Penny." Her voice tapered off to a mumble, and Stiles nodded slowly, understanding how hard it must be, he wouldn't want to leave Peter-his pack, like that! Penny was Nadia's wife, and the two were inseparable, the empath and druid bonded happily for the past three years. Nadia never stopped talking about her, and Peter spoke highly of her- a feat which not many had achieved- she sounded lovely. But what was Nadia's point?

"I've spoken to her about this...and we thought..maybe if you didn't mind...we could find a house down here? We could live nearby! I can continue teaching you, and maybe...we could join the pack?" She sees Stiles shocked face and misinterprets it. "I'm really sorry if I'm not seeing things correctly, but I really thought we'd gotten closer, y'know?" She trailed, off but her quiet voice rung through the clearing. "It's kinda sad, but you guys are my closest friends. A lot of people stopped talking to me after meeting Penny. Her Vitiligo really seems to unnerve people. I guess it shows you my real friends are, huh?" Her voice turns angry, wobbles slightly, as she tries to stop angry tears from escaping over her hot cheeks.

Peter, John and Stiles frown, any on behalf of the woman who means so much to them, and looking at each other, they make a silent decision, before shuffling over to Nadia, and hugging her tightly. The four silently bask in the intimacy of the moment, and Nadia smiles wetly into Stiles' shoulder.

Peter smiles broadly at her, looking square into her watery eyes. "You and your wife are, and always will be welcome in this pack." His voice darkens, and he bites down on his anger. "No one will ever be treated so poorly because of how they look in my presence, certainly not the loved one of the amazing and respectful Nadia. She chuckles miserably and sheepishly wipes tears off of her face. "People judged me from the burns covering my face, and I know," He laughs bitterly. "Trust me, I know it can really change your view of yourself, and not for the better." He meets her eyes again, smiling softly. "So of course, we would all be incredibly honoured if you joined the pack!"

Stiles and John laugh delightedly, clapping loudly after Peters' speech, and Nadia joins in, laughing happily. Stiles hugs her again, and she melts into his embrace. John clears his throat, his gruff bass grabbing her attention immediately.

"Lots of my...former friends...stopped speaking to me or coming round to see me when my wife had dementia." His voice cracked, and he ignored Stiles stricken face. "I think they were...scared...of her. I know it can be hard, really hard, being isolated like that. But you're right. It shows how worthy they were of my friendship." His joke falls flat, and the three stare sadly at him.

"Oh, dad..." Stiles voice trembles and he grips his father's hands tightly. "I'm really sorry..."

The Sheriff smiles sadly at him, shaking his head fondly. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, kiddo. It's over now, and I've got my pack, right?" John, Nadia and Stiles nod enthusiastically, leaving the older man with a sense of belonging he had missed for a very long time, since Claudia. The Sheriff frowns absentmindedly, gazing at his pack mates, seeing them, but not registering them.

Settling back onto the grass, John patted the ground next to him, beckoning to the three. A comfortable, yet sad silence settling over the clearing. Minutes pass by in silence, and Stiles closes his eyes, letting a content sigh spill over his lips. He feels the slight breeze drift over his exposed face, tickling bare feet, and rippling through his hair. No one speaks. Forests like this one hide many mysteries, and this one held a cavalcade of peculiar and mysterious, their far-off howls and rhythmic humming lulling Stiles into a peaceful slumber. Surrounded by his pack, he knows he's safe.

Gradually, he shifts into a lighter sleep, before slowly, pleasantly waking up fully. He keeps his eyes shut, hearing hushed conversations of the pack around him, and groggily he realises he's lying on a coat, and under another. Peters? The thought proves too tiring to think about, so he drifts again, hearing snatches of conversation, quiet chuckles and reverent whispers. Finally, his ashen eyelashes fan rapidly across his porcelain cheeks, and he opens his eyes, looking into the inky black night. Suddenly, he inhales sharply, sitting up and staring at the sky in alarm.

"What the hell are they?" He half shouts, gesturing wildly to the floating orbs that blink lazy twinkles of yellow light, circling the clearing above him. "Nadia...? Fairies?" He whispers now, the alarmed look growing to a surprised wide-eyed stare, and Nadia grins wistfully.

John snorts, shaking his head, and Peter chuckles, Stiles, looking incredulously at them as he hastily gathers his clothes wondering why Nadia isn't preparing for confrontation.

"No!" She smiles, grabbing his arm and pulling him back onto the floor. "Fireflies. Normal, non-magical fireflies." He wilts, sinking back into the grass, whilst the worry clears the furrow from between his brows.

"Oh..." Stiles settles back onto the floor slowly, looking sheepish.

"Well done, though, you remembered! But these guys are safe, and beautiful, too." Stiles turns to look at her and sees her upturned face smiling into the dark sky. Her face is lit by the fireflies, and the soft lights twist and turn over her face, a peaceful, truly beautiful miasma of nature.

He observes Peter, now, and watches the Were sitting quietly next to John, absorbed with the flying orbs of light. He looks over at Stiles then, maybe sensing the boy's eyes on him.

"Hey," Peter says, his voice husky and low, the gravelly bass quiet in the dark of the night. Stiles smiles.

"Hey."

"You've been asleep for a while..." Peter hums, shifting his boy towards him, now sitting just a few steps away. Stiles grimaced, laughing quietly.

"Oops?"

Peter smirked at him, and the two shared a silent, intimate moment of realisation. They'd done it. They'd gotten better! Maybe not healed completely, but they were on their way now...they had a pack, perhaps an unusual one - one wolf, a druid, a human, and an undetermined magical force - but they were strong, and their bonds were rapidly growing, more stable than those in the old Hale pack.

Finally, Stiles was happy! He was in a better pack, where they loved him, just as much as he loved them. The thought made him beam, and Peter cocked his head in enquiry, but Stiles just grinned, shaking his head. They all knew how far they'd come, they knew.

Hours later, the pack walked slowly, happily, back to the Stillinski house, led by a flame cupped in Nadia's hand, they stumbled through the darkened yet friendly forest, back to the pack house. Back to euphoria.


	16. Nothing

The pack slept soundly on their return to The Stilinski house, where John firmly told Peter to sleep in the spare room because it was way too late for him to be driving, he was a wolf, but he was still tired. So none of them woke until the early afternoon, the indignant sun shining through useless curtains into their darker rooms until finally, they woke up.

Stiles was the first to wake, his pale skin glinting in the dappled light of his room as he stretched, rising sleepy hands to rub at his disorientated eyes.

The house was in a peaceful silence, encapsulated in a zone of serenity: pack. Stiles soaked up the benefits of being the first to wake, lying peacefully in bed, searching for any noises, and satisfied when he heard none.

After a few minutes, boredom seeped into his awake brain, like the light glowing through the still closed curtains. He stood up, ambled over to the light of the windows, and drew them aside, opening the window, then basking in the fresh, morning air.

Stiles pulled a ragged shirt over his bare chest, and left his room, in search of nutrition. As he walked towards the stairs, he halted, in front of the guest room door. Peter. He silently debated the pros and cons of checking on the Were, then jumped guiltily when his muffled voice sounded from the other side.

"I can hear you, Stiles." Stiles blushed. "Just come in, your heartbeat is so loud I can't think."

Stiles opens the door hurriedly, stepping inside and shutting it, leaning against it awkwardly. It surprises him, seeing Peter lying so casually in bed. He didn't see the man like that often. His hair was spiked in several different directions, and his face looked open, his face unshaven. He looked adorable. Deciding to ignore the confusing emotion, Stiles did what he did best: talked.

"Surely if my heartbeat was loud out there it's louder now?" He quipped.

Peter rolled his eyes, his hands resting on a book propped in his lap.

"You sounded like a rabbit that was being chased, god knows what was going through your mind." Peter grouches. His eyes show his concern, though, so Stiles smiles reassuringly, mindful that the Were had promised to heal him. He was trying, in his own way!

As he settles into the wicker chair situated in the corner of the room, he stares out of the opened windows, as he gazes at the passing street, his eyes widen, and his heartbeat speeds up. The eyes, the red orbs outside his window so long ago...he'd forgotten all about them...he discretely stares at Peter, who had gone back to his book. Stiles coughs, loudly, awkwardly. Peter looks up, unimpressed.

"Is there something you wanted to say?"

"Were you the red eyes?" Peters' face looks blank, confused. Stiles persists. "The ones outside of my window, it was about half a year ago?"

The Weres face shows a dawn of understanding, but after a few moments, he narrows his eyes again.

"Red?" He asked. Stiles nodded warily. Peter hummed, a wondering look creeping onto his face.

"I thought you were a beta now? Why didn't you tell me you were an alpha?" Stiles half-shouts, gripping the chair like a vice.

Peter huffs angrily. "I'm not! I'm still a beta, I don't...I don't know why my eyes were red that night..." He drops the book onto the bed, his eyes now cloudy, preoccupied.

Stiles crosses his arms, unbelieving. Peter sighs, and warps his face, the smooth skin turning furred and gnarled. Stiles looks on, baffled, as the man's eyes shine blue...beta blue.

"Oh..." His shoulders wilt, but he absentmindedly rubs his arm, wondering why Peter's eyes had changed that night. "And why pray tell, were you outside my room, anyway?"

As he watches, Peter blushes, shifting uncomfortably in his bed. "I just got back to Beacon Hills...I was checking up on everyone!" He looks defensive, and Stiles laughs, relieved he had no ill intentions. Peter growled playfully, throwing the book at Stiles, who squeaked, alarmed, and dived out of the way.

Later, when Stiles, Peter, John and Nadia were eating breakfast, Stiles asked the druid about the red eyes. "Nadia..."

She looked up from her cereal, "Yes...?"

"Peter is a beta, and his eyes..they were red! Some months back, now. But...they glowed red! But they're blue again now..."

Nadia stared at Peter, her eyes widening a fraction before she returned calmly to her meal. "Was he protecting someone or something?" Stiles looked at Peter, who shrugged nonchalantly.

The druid hummed, nodding and setting her fork down. "His natural orientation is alpha, but his rank is beta, simply because he has no official wolf pack to take charge of. So when he was protecting you, Stiles." She looked at the boy knowingly. "His orientation took over, it's a more powerful rank than his normal beta, so he took on his most dominant self to protect you." Stiles looked confused, then nodded slowly. Every wolf had an orientation they were born with, which was completely separate from where they belonged in their pack. An alpha of a pack could be a beta in orientation, and a beta could similarly be an alpha in orientation.

"Cool..." Stiles appeared to lose interest, scarfing down his pop tart before slinging his bag over his shoulder, but the thought lingered in the back of his inquisitive brain.

"I'll meet you in the car, alpha?" He smirked at Peter, who rolled his eyes, but the blush on his cheeks reddened even further. He nodded faintly, and the boy grabbed his keys, and left the house, with a wave to The Sheriff and Nadia. "Bye pops, bye Nadia!" The respective people wave goodbye, and the boy is gone. Nadia stands up, stacking the dishes onto her own, clearing the table and ignoring Peters' eyes. Peter grabs them, smiling forcefully at her, ignoring her protests.

Begrudgingly, she follows Peter into the kitchen to clean the dishes and tidy up. Before she can turn the tap on, Peter turns towards her, setting down the cutlery in his hands.

"You lied." He says stonily.

Nadia frowns, the movement furrowing her brow. "I...I didn't think you'd want to hear the truth in front of...Stiles."

Peters' eyes widen, and he grips the surface of the counter uneasily. "The truth?"

Nadia inclines her head, looking pained. "I thought it was your place to tell him. But I don't like lying to him..." Her heart beats steadily, and Peter looks nervously at her. "You...you're an alpha, that's your orientation, and your alpha side was showing to protect someone, but...that only happens for...mates. True mates. You were instinctually trying to prove your worth to him..."

Peters face drains of all colour, and he stares at Nadia, time seems to slow down, and for another ten seconds, a clock emits a continuous, ominous ticking, too loud for Peter's now sensitive ears...True mate?

Was Stiles his true mate?

Nadia looked panicked, and her once steady heartbeat sped up, an obvious sign of distress.

"No...no...his dad would kill me..." His voice sounds faint, strained.

"Mates can be platonic! It would be hard to date...if it's not Stiles...but, you don't have to be in a relationship with him, at least, not at first!" Her persuasive voice sounds doubtful, and Peter is reminded of her story of just how hard it was for her to resist Penny...

He was doomed. Feeling his teeth lengthen, and his claws sharpen, Peter groans, panting quietly, as he tries to take in the news. There was no doubt he...liked Stiles. But the age difference...his father was a Sheriff! He gave up on finding his mate years ago...now look where he was.

Wrapped up in the turmoil in his mind, Peter gives in to the gnawing desire to hurt himself again. Nadia gasps, watching as he digs his claws into his arm, pinpricks of blood oozing out and splashing onto the cold floor. She tries to pull his arm away, but backs away, scared, as he growls loudly at her.

"Peter...Peter!" Her voice echoes, drenched in magic, and the Were twitches, before bringing his nails away from the wound, his claws retracted, and blood dripped slowly from the crescents that had nearly healed already on his arm.

He sighs a ragged, pained, animalistic growl. Nadia stares at him. "Stiles needs you, he's in the car, and you're going to be late...but it'll work out, it always does." She surges forward, then, and hugs the startled man, who returns it gratefully.

"Yeah...and thanks, by the way." He pulls away from her, smiling awkwardly. She nods, tucking her escaping hair behind her ear.

"It's forgotten." She says simply. That's why the two were friends.

Heading out to his waiting vehicle, Peter tries to calm the reeling thoughts in his mind and sets a smile on his face as Stiles stares at him through the window.

"Ready?"

"Never."

Peter chuckles, a strain noise to break the now awkward silence. The ride falls into an uneasy nothing, and Stiles steadily emits the scent of worry, doubt and insecurity.

"Are you okay, Peter?" He asks suddenly.

If only you knew. He thinks. "Uh huh."

Stiles doesn't look convinced but smiles encouragingly. Peter feels the guilt eating away at him, for Stiles, and for Nadia. He shouldn't have to lie to his...mate...and Nadia shouldn't have to lie either. Peter grimaces internally, and decides...he'll tell him tonight. After school and training. Plastering on a fake smirk, he asks "You haven't gone soft on me, have you?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, and hums contentedly, eyes fixed on the road. He curses loudly, looking at his watch. "I'm going to be late, not that I mind...but I haven't had to see Mrs Reid for a while for a late slip, so she'll be disappointed." He groans, tapping his hand against the seat in agitation.

Peter frowns, feeling guilty. "Sorry..." He mumbles.

Stiles stares at him, seeing how sad the older man looks. "No, it'll be alright! I've got a get out of jail free card with Mrs Reid, the whole dead mum thing..." He jokes, but Peter grits his teeth, accelerating, the engine of the sleek sports car purring smoothly.

Peter rolls to a stop in front of BHHS, and Stiles stumbles out of the door, waving hastily behind him. Peter drives away, and Stiles bounds up the steps. On entering the building, he spots the elderly school receptionist, who tuts playfully at him, sliding a late form towards him. "Morning, Mrs Reid..." He says sheepishly and scribbles down his oh so dire offence on the card.

"A good morning to you too, it seems?" She queries, taking the pen off of him and placing it in an old chipped mug filled with various stationery supplies.

Stiles chuckles guiltily. "Yeah..."

"Take care of yourself, dear. Mr Haris mentioned you..." She looked troubled, trying to find the right words for such a delicate matter. "Had a cut? On your arm? I would have asked you about it earlier, but I've not seen you in such a while...you're taking care of yourself, aren't you?" The elderly lady rambles on, but Stiles mind goes blank, his face going pale. He nods faintly, and hurries through to the main entrance to the school, ignoring the receptionist's protest.

Mr Haris...his teacher...knew. He tried to fool himself that the man wouldn't realise he'd done it himself, but of course, he knew, his sharp eyes caught every scurmish and difference in his classroom, it was certain he'd realised what happened. As he slides shakily down the wall of a corridor, he realises why Haris had been so understanding that day...

Someone knew. Someone else. Knew.

Shit.

Stumbling into the nearby bathroom, Stiles gasped, banging into doors and sinks, collapsing in the furthest one. When he slid to the floor, his panting escalating to a harsh whine, he opened his eyes. Scott.

A pang of pain bolted through his stomach, and Stiles tried to stand up, but to no avail. As he lay heaving on the floor, his fragile bony hands gripping uselessly at the frozen floor, he watched the Alpha bolt, slamming the door behind him.

Any last hope Stiles had for Scott vanished, and he slowly sank into a laying position, trembling on the floor. If none of the previous events meant anything, this one solidified his severed relationship with him, and all of that pack. Panic gave way to anger, but he reigned it in, his nails digging sharp pains into his arm, unknowingly, exactly like Peter; minutes before.

The Hale Pack meant nothing to him now.


	17. Mój Ukochany

Draining the last of the water in his glass, his Adams Apple bobbing under his ivory skin, Stiles taps his hands on the kitchen table. Everyone looks up, Nadia sliding her glasses back up the bridge of her nose, John guiltily hiding his bag of fast food, and Peter leaning in the doorway. Pushing away from the table, Stiles makes his announcement.

"I'm going to head down to the clearing early, you guys can head out later? I want to fit some meditation in." He smiles briefly at Nadia, who grins supportively. She'd been telling him a while ago about the benefits of meditation, especially for his ADHD. The time spent focusing on his thoughts and the surrounding nature had centred his magic in a way nothing else did, and the after effect of this included higher levels of concentration and other positive benefits. Stiles was in dire need of positivity, sometimes. The Sheriff nods, putting a familiar hand on his shoulder.

"Stay safe, kiddo."

"I will, Pops." Stiles smiles, heading out of the door. Peters' voice drifts through the door. "Bye Stiles."

Stiles chuckles and says his farewell to the Were. He sounds sad, a fact that hadn't gone unnoticed by Stiles for the past few days. He was hoping to get to the root of the problem soon, but any form of curiosity so far had been to no avail. He shook his head, promising to think about the issue on his return.

Twenty minutes later, he shoulders past the last of the vegetation, and emerges into the clearing, taking a second to inhale the clear air, sinking to the ground into a cross-legged position, carding tired fingers through thatches of grass. Closing his eyes, the teen gives into the exhaustion, and his mind encloses him, his body going still.

A total calm envelops the usually jumpy, energetic teen, and his usual worries slip away. His hands still, resting limply in his lap, his eyes closing, a stillness slowing his heartbeat, slowing his fears.

But when he's at his calmest, he's also at his most vulnerable.

A figure lopes into the clearing, then stops short, staring abruptly at the calm figure in the centre. His face warps, smooths, until the fur twists and changes into skin again, the newcomer gaping at the boy among the blades of grass.

From further into the wilderness, he hears a voice, shouting his name, and he turns around, slowly walking away from the scene.

"Isaac?" The faint voice comes closer, until someone else, a girl this time, steps delicately into the clearing.

"Here..." He mumbles weakly, looking towards Lydia, who stares past him, shocked into silence. Her face hardens, and she tugs at Isaac.

"Let's go." Her harsh voice cuts into the ambience of the nature enveloping the forest, and Isaac nods, slowly walking out of the clearing, only to stumble backwards, being pushed by an annoyed, aggravated Jackson. He growls, but Jackson's attention is grabbed by the boy sitting calmly, still unknowing of his old pack.

"Why the fuck is this...thing...here." His face darkens and Lydia frowns at him, seeing the tremors of holding back his rage.

"We found him like that," Isaac says, dusting himself off, before crossing his arms menacingly. The other Were harrumphs, stalking closer to the unsuspecting human.

Derek strides through a copse of trees, then, followed by Ericka, Boyd, and Scott. He narrows his eyes, his glare intensifying when he spots Stiles.

They were all there, everyone Stiles had been trying to avoid, and he didn't even know! They formed a loose semi-circle around him, a physical barrier between the rest of the forest and Stiles. He was trapped. Trapped and unaware.

Jackson stepped forward, the sneer on his face evident, and he slowly crouched down, a hairs length away from Stiles. He smirked. A cold, angry look, taking in the teen he hated so much. His hand flashed through the air, and suddenly, he held Stiles by the neck, his hand squeezing tight, like a vice. Seconds passed, and the pack watched, silently. Finally, Jackson let go, pushing the heaving teen back to the unforgiving ground, chuckling ruthlessly.

His sick power play over Stilinski had started, and he had a crowd.

Standing up, he disdainfully wiped his hands on his pants, looking down at the still unaware boy, who was now lying below him. Curious. He thought. As much as he was hurting him, Stiles still hadn't woken up from whatever state he was in. Deciding to test his theory, Jackson bent over the boy, before rearing back and kicking him.

The Hale Pack stood behind him, transfixed with the sight, pleasure warring with the sick feeling of guilt. But Jackson continued to beat the boy, who lay limply on the ground, occasional twitches wracking his body. It was silent. Except for the sound of the Weres shoe, colliding with a vengeance with the human. He grunted, every kick and punch was his hardest, and he poured out his anger, his pure oblivion of rage into the rag doll like teen.

Finally, Derek stepped forward, pulling Jackson back. Lydia gasped, unable to hold in her shock. She felt sickened, but not by the pain the boy must feel, but with disgust. Lydia Martin did not get her hands dirty. Stiles Stilinski was a mess she'd rather avoid.

"Stop." The alpha rumbles.

Jackson laughs at him, a bitter sound, ringing out into the sparse vegetation.

"Why should I? Why do you care, Derek? Do you not want him to get hurt?" His voice turned from defiant to mocking. "Dou you care for the little shit?"

Derek growled, stepping forward menacingly, the clear disgust on his face would have made Stiles recoil. But he didn't hear any of it, he was still in a troubled meditative state. All he could feel was the pain.

"I hate him just as much as you do, but I don't want the Sheriff asking difficult questions, and Peter will know we've done this to him..." His angry voice makes Jackson roll his eyes.

"I don't believe you, Derek..." He grins, knowing that every word the Were spoke was the truth. But he wanted Stiles to hurt. "Show me that you don't care." He nods towards the teen's limp form, kicking him again.

"Show me you don't care if he dies...if he's hurt. Hurt him, Derek. Hurt him!"

Derek roars, reeling forward, scattering his alarmed pack members. He prowls towards Stiles, Jackson laughing, taunting him, waiting for him to strike. Slowly clasping clawed fingers around the teen's neck, Derek growls, the sound rumbling through his chest and lighting his eyes, a red fire, revenge.

Stiles' eyes remain closed but drooped, and his breathing turns shallow. His mouth struggles to form words, but the hands bar all attempt of thought. His lips say the same word over an over.

"No..." He whimpers, his voice strained, he whispers it, the word tumbling over itself as he repeats it like a pained, innocuous mantra. "No...no, no, no, no, no, no..."

The alpha snarls, eyes glinting, and stretches his arm upwards, extending it, the frail teen struggling listlessly encased in his hand. Isaac watches, his face frozen, and the words resound inside his head. What his pack were doing was too much of a resemblance of what happened with his father. He would never wish that on anyone else, not even a traitor. A single tear rolled over his cheek, and he gritted his teeth, closing his mind against the sounds. He didn't want to be a part of this! But no one saw, or no one cared, a situation that he'd experienced countless times.

Derek tightens his hands, three agonising seconds pass, then he throws Stiles, a roar forming in his throat, across the clearing. The sound dies, a premature rumble, when his breath catches, Stiles had stopped.

Stiles had stopped, his body hung slack, hung in the air, as if held up by some unknown, invisible force. The Pack gapes at the boy, who emanates a sickly, pale glow, his skin turning pale against the bruises and cuts they had inflicted. He looked ghostly. As if he'd died. As if they had killed him, before his time. His eyes remain closed, but his head jerks violently to the side, and a bead of sweat glistens, rolling slowly down his battered forehead.

Lydia tugs urgently on Jackson's sleeve, pulling the shocked Were back, but their eyes never left the floating boy. His lips move again, forming silent words, no one moves. Finally, with great effort, he manages to speak. Everyone listens, rapt, horrified, and scared.

"You tossed me away like I didn't mean a thing." His voice trembles and the air goes silent, all sound diminishing, until all that could be heard was his voice. Boyd growls, but the sound doesn't come out, everyone entranced uneasily on Stiles.

"You left me. Like I'd never helped you. Like I didn't stay up...hours after everyone left...scouring ancient texts or connecting dots that none of you would have!" His words come out a strained whisper, but everyone hears. "I struggled...for so, so long, after you left. Scott. I saw you slipping away, you rely more on Allison anyway, and I tried to be the good best friend, I tried to tell myself it was because you were in love." Stiles sleeping face is bitter, angry.

"But the truth is, you couldn't be bothered to be around me anymore. I wasn't a werewolf, or a banshee, or a coyote, or a weird fucking lizard creature. I was human. And you thought you were superior...

Scott glares sullenly at the floor, not bothering to deny the words, and unsure if his former best friend would hear them, anyway.

"But none of you cared, there was always someone better, less hyperactive, less annoying." His hands clenched, and Derek smelt the acrid scent of blood strengthen. "Even when I brought you anything you asked for, wasting my money on things you forgot as soon as they were gone." Turning wistful, he smiles sadly.

"My piece of crap jeep was from my mom, none of you knew that huh? It was mine after she died. I promised to keep it healthy and running, to make sure it stayed just as bright as she was. But I tried to make you happy instead. I shouldn't have."

The Pack stares, eyes widening, but their hatred refused to leave. The boy had betrayed them all. Stiles' voice drifts to a quiet, sad halt. No one speaks, and a tear glistens, followed by many more, rolling down his damaged face, stinging the open wounds as they splashed onto the ground below. He begins to heave, sobbing, quietly, at first, but his breaths coming faster, quicker, and no one helped. He remained there, suspended by invisible doubts in the air, in troubled meditation, in pain...agony.

The Pack jumps to the side, startled out of the events as John, Peter and Nadia burst through the foliage, staggering to a shocked, confused stop. Peters eyes narrow, and he growls at Derek. "What the fuck did you do to him?" John races forward, towards his son, before staggering back. Peter frowns, trying, fruitlessly to get to Stiles. But the teen was protecting himself, now, and there was a barrier between him and the watching people. His subconscious was awake, and he knew he had to say what he'd been hiding for so long.

"You're better off without me..." Stiles mumbles, his troubled face twitching, violently jerking and trembling. The words seemed to echo around the clearing, his words repeating, but his mouth had stopped moving. Peter growled, stepping closer.

"No, Stiles. We need you," His voice broke, hitching as he tried to fight the sense of nausea and fear. "You're strong, little spark. You can pull yourself out of this..." His words trembled, unsure, but full of passion. He couldn't let his mate do this to himself.

Stiles groaned, a troubled, haunted sound, and yanked agitatedly at his sleeve. Nadia, Lydia, and John gasped, everyone else stood silent, watching, in shock. His pale skin was marred by cuts, thousands of fresh cuts on his skin, dripping blood onto the ground. Stiles hadn't stopped cutting.

John stared, his head shaking, his eyes filling with tears as he watched his son, who was hurting so much.

"I never stopped..." Stiles whimpered. "I'm sorry...I am...It's like I'm addicted, now. I learnt to block it, block the sight, and block the spell so that you wouldn't know..." His eyes clenched, and his eyelashes flickered alarmingly, but his eyes never opened.

"It's okay in the day when you're all there next to me..." His voice turned monotone. "But at night, I'm alone again, and that pain is fresh again, and this pain is a distraction..."

Peter whimpers, clutching his clawed hands at his side, agonised that he a

can't get closer to his mate.

"The spells are broken now...you can all see, can you?" He asks, not waiting for an answer. The Hale pack backs away, eyes filled with shock, and some with guilt, but Stiles turns sharply, his closed eyes glaring at them, he hadn't forgotten them.

"You don't know what this feels like..." His accusing voice wavers...and they whimper, absorbed by the waves of power emitted from Stiles. "I wish you could understand...I wish you knew how much I protected you!" He roars, his whisper climbing to a crescendo of loud, and his eyes flare open, glowing a strange, iridescent white.

John, Nadia and Peter watch, mouths agape as the Hale pack screams, the teens falling to the ground, Derek following shortly, writhing on the ground.

Stiles blinks, finally seeing. As he awakens, he drops, landing on the floor on his feet, crouched, staring at the ground, as he stands, he turns to his own pack, smiling fondly. "You're protected, I could never hurt you." His eyes flare white, and a wave of energy forms a strengthening band of shimmering, warping light around them. Peter presses forward, putting his hand slowly up against the light, his face visible through the shifting light. Stiles smiles slowly, walking forward, pressing his thin, powerful fingers against his.

"Mój ukochany." He says, clearly, and John stiffens, eyes turning wide. Peter looks bewildered, but smiles softly, his eyes flaring in response, red, to protect his mate.

"My beloved..." John whispers. Peter turns to him, confused. "Mój ukochany...my beloved. He called you his beloved."

Peter stiffened, staring, then a beam crossed his face, engulfing him in a blissful euphoria. His beloved.

Across the clearing, Stiles strode over to the Hale pack, who lay writhing and whimpering at his feet. He squatted down, staring at their pained faces, feeling no remorse. They were nothing to him.

He smiled bitterly. Raising a trembling hand, he stood up and held his palm upward. A thin rope of energy, growing bigger, left it. The twisting, expanding mass drifted towards the panic-stricken pack, and Stiles sighed, his morals warring with his growing anger.

The energy travelled over the pack and latched onto them, and they began to scream. Loud, piercing, agonised wails filled the clearing with a cacophony of noise, and Stiles closed his eyes, pushing his memories through the link. He showed them Gerard and his basement of terror and pain, the burning torture of the extraction, and all the times he'd hurt, and all the times he'd doubted himself after the pack left him. He pushed through the link all the pain he felt, every mental twinge, every panic attack, every cut, and the horrors that he was punished with. The horrors he put up with to protect his pack.

They felt it all, unaware as Stiles fell to the ground, sobbing, heaving, unable to stop the torrent of pain as it destroyed them, as it taught the pack just how wrong they were.

Finally, silence fell, and the energy left the pack, now red, seeping back into Stiles, who lay on the floor, unable to process the overwhelming use of power.

As he blinks slowly up at the darkening sky, the barrier lifts, and Peter, John and Nadia run over to him, Peter lifting his limp form, running, taking him home, protecting him.

As their forms disappear into the trees, the Hale pack sit up, weakened, aghast, and with a new, profound sense of guilt and understanding.

"Stiles never betrayed us," Isaac whispered. "He protected us...even when he was tortured."

They stand, silent, tears streaming down their face, finally mourning the loss of their pack member. The shadow of the horrifying, excruciating agony looms over them. None of them can imagine the sheer will it took to face that, they felt just a fraction of his pain...even at his most angry, most broken...Stiles still didn't do the wrong thing.

"He could've killed us!" Jacksons weak, but angry voice penetrates their thoughts, and he struggles to stand up, disorientated and weary.

"But he didn't," Isaac says sharply. Boyd bows his head, respectfully but silently agreeing with his packmate. "If we felt all the pain he did, like that, we would have died, there's no question. His voice rings with conviction. "Even simulating it left us like this..." He trails off, staring at the ground, hollow.

"Stiles is stronger than all of us," Scott says quietly, no one denies it. The teen was human...but had somehow suffered unimaginable pains that anyone else would have succumbed to, but he had survived.

"Did Gerard know?" Ericka asked questioningly, everyone turned to her. "That Stiles was...more...than human. He knew he would survive, but no human, let alone werewolf would ever be able to..."

As the light slips into darkness, they trudge back through the woods, hollow, and unable to forget the events.

But in the Stilinski household, Stiles had woken up. His eyes flickered open, their whisky coloured depths taking in his surroundings. He was in the master bedroom. His pack surrounded him, and he smiled weakly.

"Hey."

Peter beamed. "Hey."

Patting the space beside him, he invited Peter to lay down, cushioning his head into his chest. John stared, but shook his head. Peter was making Stiles happy, so he had no more to say about the action.

Stiles pulled Nadia down next to him, who sank into the bed with a surprised huff, and John followed suit. They lay together, a content silence drifting over them until finally, they fell asleep.

As he drifted away into slumber, Stiles smiled. A final thought strayed into his tired brain. "I'll protect my pack forever, my amazing, wonderful pack..."


	18. Little Spark

Dragging groggy hands through his unruly hair, Stiles blinks slowly, seconds passing in a haze of confusion and bewilderment. Only after sitting up slowly in the tangle of sheets does he remember the past events. A lance of pain makes him jolt, and the memories come rushing back. Gingerly lifting his arm onto his lap, Stiles' face is carefully blank. If no one sees the emotion, then maybe...maybe he can convince himself it's not there.

Blinking hard, the teen screws his eyes shut, watching the events flash vividly across his eyelids. Jackson. He hurt him. Isaac, he didn't say a word, none of them did...not even Scott. As if recalling the experience revived the pain, Stiles gasped, hunching over as his ribs began to ache, a dull, then sharp pain spreading as every movement highlights the damage done to his body.

Heaving his body off of the bed, Stiles grunts, the effort taking energy away from his shaking frame. Limping over to the window, he stares out, daylight slipping through the opened curtains. It was the morning, he'd been asleep for a long time. As he stared out at the quiet street below, he glimpsed his reflection, standing defiantly in the panes of glass. It warped, twisted inhumanely, but showing every flaw littering the body of the injured teen.

Bruises scattered over his face, gathering around his neck, shadows of the hands that gripped him, throwing him across the clearing. Cuts stung on his cheek, the faint memory of the claws that hatefully caressed his breakable skin. The skin had turned dark purple, black, and grotesquely yellow in places, swollen beyond recognition. It blistered, where it had been rubbed raw underneath ridged hands.

Raising a single trembling hand, Stiles breath caught, the effort excruciatingly hard in the confines of his damaged throat. He brought it to his eye, gently tracing the swollen shape, wincing sharply. A cut snaked out from his hairline, coming to a stop in the concave arch of his eyebrow. The raw, red line contrasted sickeningly with his pale, feverish skin.

Stiles felt the outline of the gauze under his shirt and encasing his arm. Under one, there were cuts he'd done himself. The thought sickened him now, with the sun shining onto the clinical bandages. Under the other, the produce of hatred so painful, so raw, that it had exploded, harming Stiles indefinitely.

Slipping into the nearby desk chair, Stiles panted, jagged gasps alleviating the pain in short, sharp bursts. As he sets a bandaged arm carefully onto the desk next to him, he jumps, cursing his erratic behaviour as it sends another spark of pain travelling through his body. The door cracks open, and Peter stands quietly at the opening.

Seeing the man again triggers Stiles' memories, reminding him of the man bandaging his wounds.

Stiles whimpers, pulling his arm away weakly from the Were, who gently pulls it back.

"I'm sorry, little spark. I really am. The less you move, the less painful it is."

He reaches a quivering hand to the boy's hand, clasping it firmly. Black shoots up his veins, and he hisses, shocked at the vast, excruciating pain. Finally, his arm filters back to its normal tan russet. Stiles closes his eyes, mouth going lax as he quietens, delirious under the immensity of the pain that pinpricks, curling up his arm and encasing his rib cage.

Peter looks up, acknowledging the Sheriff quietly, then goes back to bandaging the sickly boys' arm. John sits slowly at his side, his jaw clenching, his hands trembling.

"I'll catch them. I'll make them pay for what they did to my son." He says, his voice like stone, unwavering face staring at the bruises snaking up his son's throat.

Peter nods, standing up, shoulders slumped. "We both will..."

They look down at Stiles, but the boy had succumbed, finally, to sleep.

"Hey..." Stiles murmurs, unsure, remembering what he had called him in his haze.

My beloved.

"How are you?" Peters' face softens, and he stares at the teen, the morning highlighting the damage, more monstrous, more shocking than it seemed in the dim light of his bedroom the night before.

"I'm..." Stiles' voice drifts into nothing, his face downcast, and he shakily sits on the edge of his bed.

Peter shuts the door behind him, standing helplessly, unsure of how to continue, unsure of how to approach Stiles, who looked so alike to a caged animal, cornered prey that was so sure of its demise. As he watches him, Peter steadies himself, slowly walking to his side.

Stiles avoids his eyes, staring instead at the floor and tracing the gauze outlining his arm.

"You could've told me, Stiles." Peters' voice is low, his eyes searching out his mates, willing him to confide in him, to trust him. "You don't need to hide anything, you can tell me...I can try to understand, and I won't ever judge you, not for a second..." His voice breaks, and Stiles stares up at him, his eyes filling with hot tears. Peter pulls him over to the bed, guiding him gently by his hands, afraid of hurting him.

They sit with their back against the wall, legs pressed against each other's, staring silently at the wall, scared to say something, anything. The wrong thing.

Heaving a long, tired breath, Peter grips Stiles hand, taking the boy by surprise, black lines leaching the pain from him.

Stiles jerks, eyes widening. "Peter no..."

Peter shakes his head vehemently, gripping his hand tighter. "Stiles. Stop saying no... please." His voice is strained, and Stiles sits back, the protest rushing out of his body.

"I'm sorry..." He whispers his knee twitching, his agitation leaking out of his scared brain, betraying his expression. Peter looks at him, shaking his head and chuckling bitterly. His hand falling to his lap, pulling Stiles' with it. The boy gulps, cheeks blotchy and pulse quickening.

"You never need to apologise to me, Stiles...you've done nothing but make my life better..." Stiles rolls his eyes, disbelieving. Peter carries on, determined to make him believe. "You've made my life amazing Stiles...you've given me a purpose...a pack! Everything I had was destroyed...my family, then my sanity." His eyes glazed over, and Stiles frowned, feeling the tremors in his hand.

"Then you brought that back to me, and it breaks my heart to see you so destroyed..." His voice is gruff, and he angrily wipes a tear off his cheek, fingers shaking violently.

"I'm going to make you better, I'm going to be here, even when you feel like this...if it helps you...I'll never leave your side. I won't let you do this to yourself." Peters' voice turns hard, and he turns to the faint teen, looking into his glassy eyes earnestly.

Stiles sniffs, a small wobbly smile working its way onto his blotchy face. He gulps, tears running down his face freely. Peter unclasps his hand from Stiles' and gently wipes the rough pads of his fingers across his hot skin, wiping away the tears. Stiles ducks his head, his smile turning embarrassed, his face turning red as he leans into the Were, turning slowly to rest his cheek on his chest. Peter lets out a surprised huff, prompting Stiles to sit up, heatedly apologising, but his words die, as he is expeditiously pulled back into the older man's warm embrace.

They sit in silence, staring contentedly at the confines of Stiles bedroom, ignoring the bustle of the world outside, ignoring the issues that ruled their lives constantly for as long as they allowed it. Finally, Peter gently rouses Stiles, murmuring quietly in his ear.

"There's breakfast downstairs...do you think you can do it?" He asks, carefully assessing the fragility of the boy in his arms.

Stiles hums, steadying himself. "I think so, but don't leave my side." He addresses Peter, smiling cheekily up at him, trying to distract himself from the ever-present pain crawling under his skin. Peter slides his hand into the boys, taking his pain, then gently pulling him up off of the bed.

"Never, little spark."


	19. Werau

Walking cautiously down the darkened stairs, Stiles runs trembling fingers down the toughened railing, stalling the conversations greeting him at the bottom of the stairs. Peter shadows him, a reassuring length hovering over his shoulder.

"It's okay, Stiles..." The Were rumbles from behind him, willing the boy to believe in his pack, his father...and him...his mate.

Stiles breathing sounds harsh in the immediate silence, laboured pants wracking his stooped frame. Peter stops, foot paused on the stair above him, stilling and gently gripping the boy's shoulders.

"It is...you are...they love you Stiles, and whatever you do, you can't disappoint them!" He chuckles, and his smile turns fond but slips off when he registers Stiles' harsh frown.

Before he realises his actions, Peter launches forward, his head bent awkwardly as he leans down the stairs, his lips joined Stiles'.

"Finally..." His wolf seems to say. "Finally! We're with our mate!"

The teen's eyes widen, and his body stills, unresponsive to Peter, who stiffens, feeling the boys reluctance. His heartbeat rises, the pulse hammering as he steps back, rearing back onto the step above them. He starts to apologise profusely, shaking his head, berating himself, his wolf howling mournfully.

"Shit, I'm sorry Stiles...I shouldn't have done that, shit I've ruined everything..." His voice shifts to a growl, and he glares at his shoes, oblivious to Stiles shock. The boy flails, reaching out to the Were.

"No...no, Peter it's...you didn't ruin things! You didn't ruin anything!" His voice is uncomfortable, and his jaw clenches and unclenches, a sign of his prominent agitation.

"Thanks..." Peter snorts a bitter, embarrassed noise.

"If anyone ruined anything...it's me..." Stiles mumbles, his cheeks aflame. Peter stares, bewildered. "I don't...I don't do...kissing..." He fiddles with his sleeve, reaching to comb nervous fingers through his growing, unkempt hair. "Or...anything else...like that..." His eyes are downcast, and his voice has dropped so low that Peter struggles to hear it. "Or...sex..." Stiles' fists clench loosely, and he frowns, troubled. Peter's face is carefully blank, not betraying his shock.

Stiles looks up suddenly, pleading eyes seeking out the Weres. "I still like you, Peter...I really do...I want to go on dates with you...and cuddle you...and spend all my time with you picking fights about the smallest, mundane things..." His voice turns wistful, and a small, soft smile adorns his pained face.

Peter huffs out a small laugh, Stiles staring, startled. He bends down, slower, this time, wrapping his arms around the boy's waist. Feeling the shocked breath of air hit his neck, Peter buries his head in Stiles' shoulder. Tentatively, Stiles returns the embrace, his injured arms framing Peters. The Were finally pulls away, looking Stiles square in the face.

"You are...the best thing about my existence, Stiles." Stiles blushes, his blotchy cheeks turning pink. "And that isn't going to change because of that...you're asexual, right?" Stiles nods, blinking uncertainly. Peter smiles assuringly. "That's okay, pretty damn awesome, even. My point is...I want you, Stiles..." The boy stands still, misinterpreting the words. Peter hurries to continue. "I want your voice, your crazy obsession with Star Wars..." Stiles laughs wetly, snuggling into the other man's embrace. "I would love to spend every single day with you, and the rest of our pack."

Stiles grin, small and quivering, Peter's words overwhelming him. He fiddles with the hem of his shirt, then looks him in the eye. Slowly placing hesitant hands on the Weres cheeks, he leans forward, ignoring Peters confused face. His eyes flutter closed, and he lightly kisses him, a short, sweet exchange, leaving a warm, soft feeling in Peters mind.

The teen pulls away, resting his nose on the bridge of Peters'. "I can do that, though..." The words tickle Peters' cheek, and he grins, the tension from earlier fading.

"I'm up for that." He whispers, pulling Stiles down the stairs, steadying the flailing boy. His lips tingle, the pressure of Stiles' lips burned into his memory, and a soft, happy feeling curling around his heart, warming his tentative fingers and his delighted mind. Stiles was his, and he'd accept him, no matter what he wanted.

They stumble into the kitchen, hands still curled together, and they halt suddenly, Stiles banging into Peter, his owlish eyes peeking over the Were's larger frame. John looks up, his eyes comically widening, before settling into a passive, smug look. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile, and he goes back to reading the paper held over his plate of food.

"I wondered how long it would be until you two showed up." He drawled, inwardly preening over the uncomfortable looks on both of their face, but Peter could sense the underlying scent of worry as John surveyed his son's injuries.

Stiles shuffles from behind Peter, standing guiltily by his side, cheeks stained pink. Nadia sidles in through the door, clutching a cup of steaming tea. Her tired eyes light up, and she smiles softly at Stiles, placing her mug quietly on the table next to John. She weaves expertly around the small room, before embracing Stiles in a firm, but careful hug. She bows her head, her hair tied haphazardly in a toppling bun as if she was too distracted to properly style it.

She breathes deeply, and Stiles notices the tremor in her throat. She finally pulls back, standing limply in front of the boy and the Were. She twists harried fingers through the wool in her sleeves and avoids their gazes. As she sits at the nearby table, Stiles and Peter follow her lead.

"How are you?" She asks.

Stiles says nothing, shifting his eyes restlessly, surveying the hostile room.

She tries again, adamant in her pursuit. "Are your...injuries okay?" Stiles sighs, nodding faintly, trying to his pain behind a limp smile.

"Well, Peters been taking my pain, so..." His smile turns fond, and he twists his head to gaze at the Were. Nadia looks unconvinced, but hands Stiles the box of pop tarts. He mumbles his thanks.

For a few minutes, the pack eat in silence, John periodically sending worried glances to his son. Nadia clears her throat, breaking the prolonged silence, everyone turning to stare at her questioningly.

"Stiles..." She turned to him, and his stomach sank. "I think I found out what you are..." She fiddles with her sleeve and offers him a small, reserved smile, which lengthened when she saw Stiles shocked, hopeful face.

"Really?" He grins, his cheeks flushed, Peter grinning next to him.

"Yeah!" Nadia laughs, swept up in the euphoria of the moment. John peers over the top of his newspaper, smiling in relief when he sees Stiles.

"What am I then, c'mon, don't make me wait, Nadia!" He pleads, his playful face equally as desperate. His fingers drum on the table, and Nadia snorts, taking a long sip of her water. Stiles huffs, then excitedly watches as she stands up, slipping her coat on.

"Follow me?" She asks, Stiles already nodding eagerly, gingerly trying to manoeuvre himself off of the stiff chair.

John looks over sharply, his face turning grim. "Nadia, he's injured, he can't go far like this..."

Nadia frowns, perturbed, but continues tying the laces on her shoes. "Trust me, and he'll come back even better." Standing up, she walks over to the Sheriff, sitting in the chair in front of him, she ignores the looks of Peter and Stiles. John looks dubious but tries to trust the druid.

"Pack or not, if you bring my son back even more hurt than he currently is, you will suffer." He grumbles sharply, only half joking. Nadia grins, nodding amiably.

"You got it, Cap'n." She smirks, abruptly standing, shooing Stiles out of the door, dragging a bewildered Peter out behind her. He raises a hand to wave at the Sheriff, who rolls his eyes fondly. Werewolves. Gotta love 'em.

The three make slow progress through the forest, Stiles being supported by Peter who wraps secure arms around his waist. Nadia clears the way ahead of them, mumbling about the dense foliage quietly.

Stiles stiffens, recognising the area. "We're...we're not going to the clearing, are we...?" Nadia stops in front of him, turning around slowly. Her face wilts, she looks heartbroken.

"No. No...we never have to go back there..." She says darkly, clenching her fists. "Not if you don't want to." Stiles nods faintly, his heartbeat slowing from a frantic beating.

"Good." Peter tightens his hold on the boy.

Ten minutes later, the trees start to thin, and Peter exhales, his shoulders losing some of the tension they'd been carrying for so long. Stiles looks up at him, confused. "What is it?" He asks.

Peter smiles at him, simply saying "You'll see."

Soon enough, he hears the telltale trickling of a nearby stream, and he perks up. "I've never been this far in before..." He sounds unsure, but the weight of Peters hand on his arm grounds him, and he looks around. "It's beautiful."

Nadia hums, equally as fascinated, she battles through some hanging plants and stumbles to a stop. Stiles halts behind her, confused. "What is it?" He asks, then looks where her head is turned.

She stares at a bridge, crossing the now close stream, old and rain damaged, but it was the figures carved into the side of the bridge that had caught her attention. Slowly, she walks closer, trailing her hands over the rough marks embedded in the now brittle wood. "Wolves..." She murmurs.

Peter studies them silently, his face sad. "My brother and I built this bridge." He breathes, not looking at the two in front of him. "We wanted this place to be a haven..." He smiles wistfully and uses his thumb to scrape a patch of dark, green moss off of some wood. The breath catches in Stiles' The wood is wet and grimy, but still, four letters could be seen, carved meticulously onto the bridge, followed by a date.

P.H N.H 30/06/2003

"Peter Hale..." Stiles whispered, staring at the letters sadly.

Peter nodded shortly. "And Nathaniel Hale. Derek's father...my brother."

Stiles stared, turning to Peter, hugging him shakily, Nadia enveloping the mourning Were, they were all hurting.

"I'm sorry..." Stiles mumbled, head buried in his chest. Peter shook his head slowly, smiling into the man's head.

"There's nothing you need to apologise for, little spark." He says, pushing him away, and looking into his eyes earnestly. Stiles sniffs, smiling back tentatively.

Minutes pass, until finally they let go, and sit on the mildewy ground, surveying the vast, peaceful and silent nature surrounding them. Nadia sits cross-legged in front of Stiles, grinning, banishing the depressive atmosphere immediately.

"Do your wounds still hurt?" She asks innocently, eyeing the bandages covering his arms. Stiles frowns, confused. He doesn't feel the pain anymore...

He stares suspiciously at her, then at Peter. "No...I don't."

Nadia looks excited, nodding happily. "I didn't think you would! Take the bandages off..." She says gleefully.

Stiles sighs, hands unwilling to survey the damage once again, relieved when Peter takes his hand, gently unwinding the gauze. As strip by strip, the dressing is pulled away, Stiles stares at his ivory skin, dumbfounded. Though the padding is streaked with blood, the skin is unmarred, not even a scar on the dotted canvas. He stares at Nadia, mouth agape.

She smiles, nodding to the gauze around his ribs, just visible under his ridden up shirt. He unravels it carefully, shaking fingers slowing the process. But finally, with the bandages in a heaped pile beside him, his torso is bare. Stiles' heart slams against his rubs, and he gasps, unable to keep in the shock. His ribs had healed, and all the bruising was gone.

"How...?" He squeaks, incredulous voice rising higher than intended.

Peter inhales sharply, face shocked, equally as baffled as his unharmed mate.

Nadia beams, returning Stiles' tentative happiness in double. "The forest is healing you...you're drawing magic from the land..from us..." Her face softens, and Stiles finally gets the answer he'd been searching for since the start of his discovery.

"You're a Werau, Stiles!" She shout-whispers, a disgruntled squirrel fleeing from the noise.

Stiles wrinkles his nose, more confused than before he had heard the foreign word. "A...a what?" He squints.

"A Werau!" She says excitedly. Stiles stares, unimpressed. She hurries to carry on. "There's not many left that I know of...it's virtually unheard of! You can draw, or simulate...if you will, the power and magic of other entities, bodies and places around you..." Her words shock even herself, but suddenly, everything clicks into place. "That's why you knew everything I taught you! That's why you were so skilled at it so quickly!"

Stiles gapes, unable to comprehend the situation. Nadia roots busily through her backpack, searching for something. Eventually, she pulls out a book and begins to leaf through the worn pages. "Here." She says, handing the book to Stiles. "Everything I know about your kind." She says breathlessly, smiling gently at the astounded teen, who wordlessly starts to read the page.

Werau's, based on the Maori word for "Parasite", originates from New Zealand, and are only able to manifest by blood. It is impossible to turn a Werau by a bite, or similar means, akin to a werewolf. These beings are able to take the form of anything they wish if there is enough energy surrounding them, which is why many live in or around forests. Without this energy, Werau's begin to weaken and lose their abilities. If they choose to become a part of a stable pack, or coven, then they begin to simulate the powers and magic of those in the group. For example, if a Werau had a bond with an empath, they would begin to sense emotions and be able to project said emotions onto other people. These abilities are not permanent, however, but accumulate and grow stronger the longer these individuals are around each other. If the Werau moves a great distance away from the individual, the powers begin to weaken and are not at the optimum frequency. This can be done with several people so the Werau can take on numerous powers and shapes. Unless told otherwise, a Werau is unaware of their abilities, so it is often difficult to realise what they are. However, with little self-control issues, after a Werau is aware of their abilities, they are able to harness them and use them at will. Many have been slaughtered or have gone into hiding due to the overall society of hunters wariness of broaching the subject. As of 2012, there is an estimated count of 8 Werau's in North America. However, these numbers are expected to diminish.

Stiles looks up, aware of Nadia and Peters gaze on him. His hands shake, and he carefully hands the book back to the druid. Peter moves closer to the boy, putting a solid arm around him, allowing the shell-shocked boy to lean into his shoulder.

Nadia tucks the book carefully into her ba, tucking a wayward strand of curly hair behind her ear. She gases at Stiles, waiting for his reaction.

He grins, his whole face lighting up. "I'm super freaking rare..."

Peter snorts, and Nadia laughs, eager to see the return of his good mood.

Peter pulls him closer, chin resting in his hair, Nadia bouncing excitedly on the spot. "Fuck yeah you are!"


	20. Fairy Lights

Trooping back through the rough terrain of the forest to the Stilinski household didn't take as long as the previous outing had, the pain acting as a hindrance curling through Stiles body had diminished rapidly until finally, there was none.

The three talked, breathless and giddy after the realisation of Stiles' newfound additional supernatural identity. By the time they reach the familiar household, the entirety of the situation has been stripped bare and analysed from every angle. Stiles walking with his hand clasped in Peters, Nadia watching them fondly.

As they step through the door, the murmur of the TV greets them from the living room. Immediately, the Sheriff rushed out of the room, standing at the end of the short hallway, staring at Stiles. His eyes widened and wordlessly walks forward, rising shaken, rough hands to the now smooth, healed skin.

"You worked your magic, kiddo...I'm proud of you." He murmurs, pulling the boy close and hugging him, his voice gruff. Stiles smiles into his shoulder, eyes wet. His dad had been kept in the dark for so long, and his introduction had been less than pleasant...but Stiles had healed, and he planned to keep it that way.

John inhaled, letting his son go. As he shuffles from foot to foot in front of the ajar door, John decides to clear up any worry Stiles may have had, aware his former hostility could've scared the boy.

"I'm sorry I was...off...this morning." Stiles nodded uncomfortably, but John carried on talking. "I was wrongly taking out my fear on you, and...after your mother died, I've been scared to lose you, too. And how I would be after..." He grunts, looking at the ground, a constipated look on his hardened face.

Stiles frowned, eyes turning dark. A lump rose in his throat, and he struggled to see through the rapidly increasing tears overflowing down his cheeks. "I love you, dad, and I miss her just as much as you do..." He whispers voice strained. "I'm not planning on leaving any time soon..." His voice cracks, and he tries to smile, staring earnestly at Johns' face.

John chuckles wetly, hugging his son firmly, patting him on the back, looking over Stiles' shoulder at Peter and Nadia awkwardly staring at the ground. He smirks, and gestures over to them, inviting them to join the hug. Soon, all four end up in a happy embrace, surrounded on all sides by the pack.

The puppy pile is moved to the lounge, where the four sprawl over the couches and the sheriff discovers more about his son: The Werau. He pulls him closer, silently showing his support, and Stiles grins, catching the eye of Peter, who takes his hand tentatively, curling their fingers together, out of the sharp eyes of the Sheriff.

Later, when the TV filled the content silence, Nadia cleared her throat, grabbing the packs attention. She sat cross-legged on the couch, next to Stiles and Peter, gnawing nervously on her jumper.

"Y'know...how we talked about me and Penny moving somewhere nearby?" She started nervously. The others nodded, intrigued. "Penny's in the town over...for business..." She grinned, ignoring Peters snort and Stiles disbelieving face, and carried on. "Okay, sure, the business is you, but I thought it would be fun for all of us to go out to coffee, and talk and Stiles," She nodded at him. "John," She asked. "Can meet her...is that okay?" She rushes, wondering if she should have waited for longer 'till introducing Penny.

Stiles nudges her, grinning supportively and squeezing her hand. "We'd love that!" He says, nodding vigorously. Nadia laughs and leans against him gratefully. "I know she's a nerd...I've seen some of your texts!" He smiles innocently, Nadia gaping confusedly. "We're gonna get on just fine..." He says, his eyes glinting mischievously.

The druid sighs, tucking her phone into her pocket. "Why am I suddenly worried about that...?" She asks.

Peter chuckles, followed by John, as they watch Stiles beaming innocently. "I have no idea what you're talking about." He grins piously, faking offence at the varying degrees of scorn that meet him. They laugh, and their joy runs louder than the cheesy infomercial on the TV in front of them, everyone smiling.

The pack stayed curled together for much of the afternoon, until the Sheriff was called into the station, breaking the sense of serenity. Nadia went to Penny, and Stiles, he went with Peter, into the woods, to the house hiding in the woods, effortlessly elegant, yet beautifully rustic.

When the sky darkened to a picturesque pink, hues of red and gold entwined with that of blue and violet. Peter sat amiably in the arch of his bay window, Stiles next to him. The two stared out into the forest outside, the darkening trees pelted with droplets of water as heavy, swirling clouds stampeded the earth with rain. The faint clap of thunder resonated through the house, seemingly harmless in the cosiness of the dimmed lights.

The weather had turned suddenly, a tang in the dry summer air to a storm pelting over their heads. Peter leaned against the cold glass, his measured breath blowing spirals of warm air onto the freezing window. Stiles turned to look at him, studying the man sitting so calmly next to him.

Peter had been a monster for so long. Stiles had never stopped to think about the moments when he wasn't fighting. Behind the cruel, malicious mask, were there always these moments of pure tranquillity? When did the warmth creep back into his heart? After years of being manipulated and sacrificed, he had twisted and warped into a power hungry, merciless beast. Yet he'd managed to come back from that, to reign in the anger, when so many hadn't.

Stiles never imagined...dating...someone like him. Every single time he'd wondered about his future, the old packs future, he'd imagined himself as a valued member, hopefully safe, and everyone had fought out the things that set them so far apart. Jackson realised he didn't need to keep up a hard front at all times, Isaac managed to heal after his father, Lydia could have been a friend of his, Boyd and Ericka would have liked him. Sure, Derek? He could have been civil.

But they were the people who swept him aside as if he was worth nothing.

And now, he was in an entirely different pack. His pack.

Peter looked at Stiles, seeing his vacant stare. Stiles seemed to come back to himself, eyes tearing away from the window and settling onto Peter. He smiled, reaching out a hand tentatively, relieved when the older man grinned lazily back, gripping his outstretched fingers in his own. They shared a moment of silence, nothing but the rain penetrating the heavy calm.

Stretching languorously, the Were eyed the room: empty take-out cups, the paused TV, fairy lights wrapped precariously around a nearby plant - Stiles insisted on them, apparently, it made the room seem less "Serial Killer-esque". Secretly, Peter agreed with him.

The quilt wrapped around Stiles slipped onto the seat, it's bright, homey fabric seemingly out of place among the modern set-up inside the house. Similar adventitious objects had slipped into nooks in the room, Stiles doing, of course. The boy had, accidentally or otherwise, ended up bringing a great many items into the house, and they had been integrated into Peters lifestyle quite effortlessly. Stiles had also, inevitably, crept into his heart.

"What's up?" Stiles murmured, eyeing Peter warily. Peter shook his head, smiling at the ground in amusement.

"Nothing is up, as you put it." He snorts, Stiles rolling his eyes good-naturedly. "I'm just...happy."

"Happy?" Stiles echoed, a hopeful smile dawning on his pale face.

"Yes," Peter murmured, head bowed, but his lips were curved upwards as he admitted how...good...the past few months had been.

Stiles grinned, pulling him into a hug, leaning his head into Peters' shoulder, surveying the room. With their backs to the rain, the warm glow encapsulated them, and it felt like the night could go on for an eternity.


	21. The Dad Routine

The window stays a cold reassurance against Peters' cheek as he stares out of the window of the Jeep, Stiles behind the wheel. The two stay in a comfortable silence, relaying the awaited event of meeting the recent addition to their pack: Penny.

As they pass dusty shops and closed-up warehouses, they contemplate the event soon to arrive. Stiles looks at Peter, shimmying up in his seat to grin curiously. "So...Penny, huh?"

Peter huffs, amused by Stiles antics. "Yes, Penny." He says, steadfastly staring forward, lips twitching in a small smile. Stiles taps his fingers on the steering wheel and hums in agreement, arching an eyebrow in an attempt to make the older man speak.

"She's nice." He says simply, ducking his head, exhaling before beginning again. "It was only going to be for a while, her working at the firm..." He chuckles. "She worked on the third floor, Nadia was on the fifth, they met in the middle at briefings and hit it off." Peter snorted, incredulous laugh filling the car.

Stiles laughed delightedly and twisted to stare at the wolf. "Seriously?" He exclaimed, and Peter nodded, still chortling.

"They've been together since, and never ended up finding another job, I guess finance was just too appealing..." He said drily, re-focusing on the passing road signs as they drove on.

"Definitely a good choice..." Stiles murmured jokingly. Grunting as he coaxed the Jeep into third gear, he elbowed Peter, squeaking and narrowly avoiding the answering poke in the ribs. "Hey!" He yelped, Peter laughing at his antics.

"Pull in here, it's on the next corner..." Peter says, reclining in his seat.

Stiles does, then looks over at the older man. His mouth is a pinched line, and his shoulders a tense line. "If I didn't know better..." Stiles starts conversationally, "I'd say you were nervous..."

Peter grits his teeth, and shakes his head slowly, refusing to look Stiles in the eyes as the car grinds to a halt. The boy sits silently, before wrapping his fingers tentatively around Peters. "She sounds amazing. And you're amazing, so...from my calculations, you'll get on just fine." He smiles cheekily. Peter chuckles and squeezed his hand.

"It's been so long," He says wistfully. "Lots must have changed, I've missed so much..."

Tutting playfully, Stiles shakes his head. "Even more reason to catch up, cutie-pie."

Peter rolled his eyes, opening the door. "Is that a new pet name, huh?" Stiles grinned.

"Fuck yeah, it is!"

"Language, darling."

"Sure thing..." Stiles waggled his eyebrows suggestively, pushing open the door.

"Don't say it." Peter sighed, failing to hide his grin.

"Cutie-pie." Stiles sings, tilting his head to the side and smiling lopsidedly.

"You're ridiculous." Peter laughs, walking past Stiles into the cafe, the musk of incense hitting his nose.

The scent curls round the quiet hubbub of the room, not too strong for the man's sensitive nose but a curious aroma that fitted the place perfectly. Sloping ceilings rose into the shadows and the low thrum of jazz music set a candid heartbeat for the site. Tables were spaced out across the carpeted floor, a mismatch of wooden and glass, plastic and metal, and around them all were chairs equally as odd, but somehow charmingly right.

The colours clash horrendously, Peter thought, but it somehow managed to look cosy, rustic and welcoming, something Peter now realised he wanted for himself. As he and Stiles navigated around haphazard clustered tables and one particularly bizarre chaise-longue, he caught sight of them. He stopped abruptly, Stiles bumping lightly into his back, indignantly poking him in the spine. He peered curiously around the older man's shape to find the hold-up, freezing when he saw his wide-eyed stare.

Making a decision, Stiles tapped him on the shoulder, startling Peter out of his daze, and whirled him around abruptly to a dazed stop so he was staring back at the teen. "You're going to do brilliantly, you always do, and I'm always here to whisk you out of the situation if needed!" He promised warmly. "Should we have a code word? That would be cool! And useful, but what word should it be?" He rambled, Peter gazing at him in confused nervousness.

"Stiles." He rumbles, putting a firm hand on his shoulder and steering him towards the table.

"Stiles?" The teen repeats, bewildered. "That could get confusing, I feel like the word needs to be more obscure, but not too ob-" The breath is knocked out of him as Peter pushes him into one of two spare seats at the rickety table, sliding gracefully into the other, nerves forgotten.

The teen smiles sheepishly at his father, who sits at his other elbow, tracing the design on a mug. "Sorry?" He snarks. His eyes trace the people around the table, Nadia, Peter, John...and Penny.

Penny.

Peter beams, and stands up, meeting the girl in a hug, both laughing wetly. "It's been too long, Pen..." He murmurs, she hums in agreement in his ear, hugging him closer.

"We're here now, and I'm not going anywhere." She returns, pulling away to smile at the Were. They part, moving back to their respective seats, whilst Nadia introduces Penny to John and Stiles, the latter looking on curiously.

"Penny." He breathes, eyes alight with interest and eyes flicking over her nervous form.

She sits across from him, curly hair loose around her framed face. He surveys the marks snaking over her skin and down under her shirt collar, and the way she twitches to cover them, and decides that no friend of his is going to be embarrassed by their skin...the vitiligo was beautiful, and Stiles had the feeling that that's not what she was usually told. Pulling his eyes away, he smiled warmly at her, holding out an eager hand across the table.

She returns the handshake with a small smile, nodding her head at her name. "Stiles, right?" She murmurs, mouth turned in a small frown.

"That's me." He grins, performing a tiny salute, Penny's lips quirk into a grin and she shyly returns the salute.

John eyes Nadia and John, and they stand up together, making a flimsy excuse to go and get the newly arrived couple some drinks, leaving Penny and Stiles together.

They sit in silence for a few seconds, unsure what to breach first. Penny leans back in her booth and exhales quietly, locking eyes with Stiles. "I don't want to be some kind of stereotypical empath but..." She stalls, seeing Stiles confused look. "You're still sad." She says simply.

Stiles' face softens, and Penny sees the vulnerability in his eyes. "Perhaps." He says quietly, jokingly.

She nods, smiling at her knees and fiddling with the proffered cutlery. "I can help, I can understand. We should talk, y'know?" As she says the words, Stiles goes still, then nods vigorously.

"I think that would be awesome." He smiles warmly, happy to have a chance to verbalise his feelings with someone other than himself. "And...I can't...specifically..." He grins mischievously. "Sense emotions, but I can talk if you ever need it?"

"Hell yes," She says, relieved. "I'm sorry for being so distant...I'm always scared about peoples first reactions to...this..." She gestures weakly at the marks on her face.

Stiles looks affronted, and angry. "Well, I think it looks amazing!" He exclaims. She snorts. The others settle back into their seats, and Peter presses a glass of soda into Stiles' hand. "You have vitiligo, right?" He asks.

"Yup." She mumbles, smirking embarrassedly.

"She has so much magic that it couldn't contain itself..." Nada said conversationally, leaning over and joining the conversation.

"So now its manifested onto your skin..." Chorus Nadia and Penny, the latter mocking her wife. Penny rolls her eyes and blushes, leaning into Nadia's side.

"You know it." Says Nadia fondly.

Smiles smiles, grinning at Peter, and they silently coo over the couple. It was amazing to see Nadia so in her comfort zone again!

John sips his lemonade dutifully, and peers over the glass. "So..." He steeples his fingers together. "Penny. Have you ever been arrested?" He asks, deadpan.

She chokes on her drink, Nadia grinning and thumping her on the back, Stiles glaring in amused outrage at him.

Nadia slings an arm around the Sheriff, looking relaxed. "Stop the dad routine, we've been married for years!" She chortles, and Johns serious expression turns to a beam, and he smiles reassuringly at Penny.

Stiles smiles at the two, leaning into Peters side, his family were coming together, and it was going so damn well!


	22. Bilocation And Other Confusions

Stretching over the arm of his desk chair, Stiles pouts at the floor and the intimidating pile of school work heaped against the end of his bed.

"Peterrrrrrr..." He sings, looking out of the door, willing the older man to come and rescue him from the inevitable. As his footsteps creak up the stairs towards him, Stiles rolls off the chair and flops mournfully on the floor, propping his head on the bed.

Peter looks around the doorframe, and smirks, leaning against it casually. "Y'know," He starts conversationally "Schools not gonna wait for you, and it's only one year left 'till you can discover the joys of college..." Stiles snorts and pulls himself up, tucking his smaller body into the crook of Peters, leaning against his chest as the older man loops his arms around him.

"I can't wait." The teen says wistfully, smiling faintly at the thick pamphlets littering the entirety of his room. Peter squeezed his hand gently, offering his solidarity without the need of words. As they stand silently, watching the light sifting through the open window, Penny walks up the stairs, stopping to give a lopsided grin that turns softer, offering a brief hug to the two before carrying on down the hallway.

They eventually take the leaflets downstairs, Stiles biting his lip worriedly, Peter adjusting his glasses, an intent look on his furrowed face. John, Nadia and Penny join them, sitting on and around the crowded couch to look through the glossy pages of each book.

"I like Berkeley..." He mumbles unsurely, fingers already leafing through the other adverts to scope his options. Nadia nods enthusiastically, John smiling faintly.

"Stiles..." John starts, his gruff voice unusually grave, "I'd love for you to go to Berkeley...but I'm not sure... don't know if we have the money for that..." He frowns, face hardening at having the possibility of the university taken further away.

Stiles stills, the smile slipping off his face, and his grip loosens on the leaflet. "There's lots more, Pops, and there's always the chance of a scholarship?" He replies questioningly, and John smiles, taking his hand and squeezing it. The Stilinski's always made it through, no matter what.

Peter looks on and enters the conversation. "As a pack, we could fund you, and no-" He ignores Stiles' angered look, and barrels on "- it's not too much to ask, and you've more than earned it with your powers." He searches beseechingly for a change in the teen's expression and is met with a stony glare.

"I'll take that as a no..." Sighs Peter, silently adding the "For now." in his head, Stiles needed to leave the shit-hole of Beacon Hills, and it would be beneficial for them all. Stiles snorted, and stood up slowly, frown in place.

"Well, I'm gonna do my chem homework, so come help me or not." He mumbles, striding out of the room. Peter looks up, noting everyone's stares on him, and nodded, following his mate.

As he entered his room, Peter sensed the tension in the dimly lit space and watched as Stiles sat hunched over his book.

"I know you're too clever to need my help, so I gather you don't want help with that..."

Stiles grimaces, being caught out. He nods, a guarded expression on his face. "I want to go to Berkeley...but I hate the thought of using your money!" He said, tone vicious. Peter sat next to him, taking the chem book and putting it carefully on the desk. He grabbed Stiles' hand and studiously listened, intent on letting the boy vent.

"And besides, the whole...Werau...thing isn't gonna work in a city...he said miserably. I need forests and Berkeley doesn't have one of those."

Peter hummed agreeably but shook his head. "There are ways around that, y'know." Stiles raised a bewildered eyebrow, confused as to whatThe Were meant. "Nadia?" Peter beckoned, angling his face to the door to call for the druid. When she stood in the doorway, staring amusedly at the couple.

"Would you be truly amazing..." He started, Nadia rolling her eyes. "And show Stiles the art of Biolocation?"

"Bilocation, hmm?" She echoed thoughtfully, and stood fully, before giving the two a thumbs up, and promptly disappearing.

"Wha-?" Sputtered Stiles, who stiffened next to Peter, who laughed loudly. Stiles glared, and looked around the room, not seeing the druid. They both jumped when a pebble soared through the window and landed neatly between them. Stiles ran to the window and gaped at a blithe Nadia shouting with laughter on the grass below. "What the fuck..." He said blankly.

"It takes a bit of getting used to, huh?" Murmured a familiar voice from behind him.

Whirling around, Stiles stared indignantly at Nadia, who now stood in front of him again, chortling mischievously, Stiles walked backwards, looking confusedly back through the window and seeing Nadia laughing on the ground beneath them.

"I repeat..." He murmured faintly, "What the fuck..."

Nadia's eyes flared green, and her form disappeared from the garden until she stood as one in front of him. "Bilocation. Apparition. Teleportation. Call it what you will." She says breezily, leaning on his desk, seemingly more suave than ever. Stiles' eyes widened as he shakily gazed at her, leaning against Peter for support.

"Is there a connection between that and Berkeley...?" Stiles ventured, questioning Peters sanity not for the first time.

The Were nodded enthusiastically, slipping his phone from the pocket in his jeans to offer the teen an open tab on Google. Stiles took the proffered device and peered inquisitively at the screen. "A...house?" He said, bewildered.

"Indeed, a house," Peter replied smirking.

"It is a nice house..." Stiles replied, fighting the urge to poke the sarcastic wolf. As he stared at the pixelated image, his eyes ventured over the green surroundings and the cosy atmosphere, the arching windows and roof, and the sloping grounds.

"It's up for sale..." Peter murmured, eyeing John and Penny as they silently joined the scene. Stiles' eyes widened, and he stared from one face to another, all tentative but hopeful, as the pack waited for his reaction.

"So you're proposing, we move to this house and I magically transport to Berkeley for every class?" He laughed, almost disbelieving. Peter nodded, looking at John for support.

"We could get away from Beacon Hills, kiddo." Whispered the Sheriff, Siles smiled wetly and clutched at the cushion held in his grip.

"Really?" He murmurs. The others frown, hearts aching as they watch the vulnerability seep back into the boy's expression.

"Yes...we can start over." Smiled John, ducking his head. Stiles grinned, squeezing Peters hand.

"Fuck yes! It's been a long time coming!" He yelps gleefully, ignoring the Sheriff mild protest of "Language!" to scramble downstairs to the heap of forgotten pamphlets.

Berkeley was back on.


	23. Haggling Techniques

"Yes, I'd like to request a place in your service, sir, a transfer."

Johns deep voice could be heard through the door, the baritone rumble letting words escape here and there to the waiting Stiles outside the room. He sighs, letting his head thunk onto the wood, jumping minutely as Peter rounds the corner, enveloping him in a much-needed hug.

"Hey." He murmured into the teen's hair, chin resting in the unruly curls that had yet to be maintained. Stiles huffed, and pulled the Wolf to the couch, flopping down on it miserably and flicking through the channels, each one a repetitive monotony.

"Hey." Stiles returned, a frown firmly on his face. Peter leaned into him, offering his silent support, waiting for John to finish the call. He tried not to listen, instead focusing on the cheesy commercials on screen.

Finally, the telltale silence had Stiles eagerly sitting straighter, eager eyes scanning the opening door as his father exited. "I'm sure you heard everything, so I take it you already know the outcome." He said dryly, sitting in the chair opposite the teen.

Stiles rolled his eyes, stifling a small smile. "I heard some parts, but Peter," He elbowed said werewolf. Peter grunted, poking Stiles in the ribs. "Wouldn't tell me anything," John smirked approvingly. "I'm going to assume from your grin that it went okay?" Implored Stiles, the TV entirely forgotten.

"Yup." Confirmed John, grinning as he watched his son enthusiastically high-five Peter. "I'm all set to start at the Highmore Police Departement in a month and a half!" Stiles baulked, face going pale at the short amount of time until their eventual move.

"Not long at all..." The teen murmured, fiddling with his sleeve, preoccupied. John nodded, but the teen didn't see the gesture. Peter and John shared a look, and the Were quietly left the room to let the two talk. John sat down heavily in the free space, debating the best words for the situation.

"I don't want to leave mom..." Stiles mumbled, voice wavering. John clenched his teeth, willing himself not to cry. Stiles continued. "All the memories of her, all the good ones, they're here, Beacon Hills." He choked, face crumpling, sagging into the older man as he wrapped a heavy arm around his shoulders.

"I know, kiddo," John said gruffly, struggling with the same demons his son was. "But we can take her with us...all the best parts, we have 'em stored in here," He tapped his head, grinning wistfully. Stiles snorted wetly, wiping his tears away miserably.

"I guess so..." He says quietly. "But I don't want to..." His voice broke. "Start a new life without her, I don't want to do all the things without her that she should've been here for!" Anger enters his voice, and he glares at the muted TV screen, as images of ecstatic sales people flash over the screen. John sighs lowly, head bowed, and smiles painfully at his son, seeing the anger slip off his face to the more vulnerable side of sorrow "She was never here to see who I've grown up to be, however terrible that is..." He said, chuckling at Johns frown.

"You can create things out of nothing, you can draw powers from the plants and creatures in the forest, you can replicate the powers of supposedly nonexistent supernatural forces...Stiles, you're the least terrible person I know." John said sternly, smiling at his son's antics. Stiles nods slowly.

"But she still can't see it." He says morosely. He holds his hand out, watching as a caterpillar rapidly grows, spindles forming together to transform through the stages of its life, before becoming a butterfly, its wings stretching out across the teen's palm, startling as Stiles sneezes, before flying away through the ajar window, in turn making Stiles' squeak in surprise.

John began to silently laugh, bent over in soundless mirth, Stiles watching him incredulously, a small smile forming on his face. "What?" He asked, curiously staring at his father's jovial expression.

"You want your mom to know how you can create creatures that you are then scared of?" John exclaims, gasping for breath, laughing loudly. Nadia walks into the room, followed by Penny, watching the peculiar scene.

Stiles grins, chuckling in agreement. "Yeah! She should know that kind of thing!" John snorts, eyes sparkling, and the two enjoy a moment of joy, separate from their struggles.

Peter sidles in, quirking his lips, and leans against the wall in interest. "I leave for a few minutes and this happens?" He enquires, laughing as Stiles stumbles over and gives him a hug, John watching through his happy tears, joining the girls giggling madly.

"You love it!" Stiles replied, looking up at the Weres face, delighted at the light blush forming on his cheeks. Peter rolled his eyes, failing to hide his nod.

"Sometimes I wonder why..." He mumbles, feigning annoyance, laughing at Stiles offended face. Penny ambled over to the two, wedging herself between them to join the hug, Nadia following her actions, the four snuggled together, soon joined by John.

Fifteen minutes later, Stiles shuffled out of the door reluctantly, followed by Peter. As the door shut, they inhaled the fresh air, taking a moment to watch the day begin before heading to the car.

Peter sat in his seat, watching the resistant teen quietly. "Three weeks left," He murmured, pulling his slack hand into his own. Stiles sighed, turning to him and smiling.

"Yeah" He swallowed, "...I don't want to be around...them...anymore." He whispered, voice turning weak. Peter frowned, throat tight. "But I also, don't want to leave...and then there's the whole money issue..." He grimaced, remembering the hefty fee of going to his college of choice.

"It's not an issue!" Peter replied, agitated, not used to someone being unwilling to use the proffered money. "I can pay for it, and if it really makes you feel better you can pay a small-" Stiles glared. "-fraction of fit over a longer period of time!" The teen crossed his arms obstinately, refusing to give in the idea of financial security.

"I've never been able to just...have something...not be an issue!" He said loudly, his steely glare surveying the buildings as they drove past. "We've always had to be careful with our money and that isn't going to magically change now I have a Werewolf safety net!" He griped, ignoring Peters amused face.

Peter shook his head, determined to make Stiles see his point of view. "I get that, I do." Stiles scoffed. "But now it's not like that, and you'll be able to go through college with less stress, creating better results, equaling a better overall outcome!" He said, hoping to sway the teen.

Stiles sighed loudly, sloping further into his seat as the BHHS main building approached. "I suppose you're right." He mumbles reluctantly. "But I'm going to pay it back when I'm old and rich and successful." He said smugly, winking at Peter, who laughed and nodded. "We can be one of those old couples that match their clothes, and go out to the park together!" He chortled delightedly, mind already chasing another future scenario.

Peter grinned, nodding along. "As long as I get to pick our outfits. I'm not wearing plaid." He wrinkled his nose in disdain, slowing the car to a halt in front of the school.

"Fine, but you can't make me give up my plaid!" He gasped in only part mock horror, gripping his bag, stalling. "How about a deal."

"Go on..." Peter smirked, intrigued.

"Plaid three days a week and whatever you want for the other four?" He said quickly, eyeing Peter, awaiting his response.

The Were scoffed, shaking his head vehemently.

"Two days."

"Four!"

"That's not how haggling works, Stiles!"

"...Two. My final offer." Stiles snickered, turning in his seat eagerly.

"...Fine!" Peter threw his arms up in despair, "Subject me to the torture...your own boyfriend!" He says drily, flinging a dramatic arm over his face in pretended hopelessness. Stiles hugs him quickly across the middle of their seats, before opening the door.

"I'm sure you'll survive." He smirked, walking off into the building. Peter sits in his seat, a faint smile on his lips, the conversation leaving him feeling light and happy.


	24. Class 4HJ

Ambling slowly through the crowded hallways of the school, Stiles contemplated his last weeks in the hell hole of Beacon Hills. Graduation was nearing, so was the promise of a new life, a new start, without...them.

Passing each classroom was bittersweet, and left Stiles in deep thought. He trudged mindlessly onwards, clutching his bag like a vice. Passing a map illustrating the sprawling layout of BHHS, he paused, staring at a coloured square, showing more than he ever thought it could. He walked on, speeding up minutely.

It seemed like an eternity before he reached Class 4HJ.

Peering in to see if the room was occupied, the teen slipped inside, dropping his bag on the floor, sitting in one of the vacant seats. Dim light filters through the window, highlighting trails of dust flying around the room. Lightly resting his chin on the back of the chair, Stiles stares, taking in the sight of the room where so many of his memories were created.

Eyes turning to the back of the room, Stiles stood up, making his way to the final set of desks. Leaning down, he looked under the table, tracing a finger along the surface to search for one of the more physical aspects of his memories.

Finally, his hand brushes over two sets of initials, and a date.

S.S S.M 12/05/06

Stiles Stilinski, Scott McCall. Stiles' breath hitches and his eyes widen, tears stinging against the unforgiving air. Memories of hushed delight and excited rebellion fill his mind, shadows of a long-ago, destroyed time resurfacing.

There had been a supply teacher, they'd left the room and Stiles managed to convince Scott that it'd be a good idea to "Leave their mark." Years later, Scott had left his own mark, not so physical, on Stiles, and he wanted nothing more than to make it disappear.

Bringing shaky hands to rest over the initials, Stiles draws power from the nearby forest, willing the wood to grow back, to shroud the mark left there, drawing the ink away from the indentations. Taking his hand away, he looks at the spot and sees nothing but smooth wood. The usually simple action of using magic drained his energy, leaving him wilted on the floor, kneeled next to the desk. Slowly leaning back, Stile's head thunks against the wall and his eyes close. Shakily exhaling, he tries to relax, hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

The door opens, making the teen jerk upright, scrambling to a standing position, that stiffens when he sees the intruder.

Scott.

Stiles stiffens, eyeing his abandoned bag next to the door, and the wolf blocking the only exit. Scott shifts uneasily, eyes flitting between the exit and the scared teen in front of him, his heartbeat skyrocketing. He walks forward, taking a wary stance. As they stand in silence, Scott takes in the appearance of the boy he used to spend every waking minute with. His frame had filled out, and there was a light in his eyes that hadn't been there for a long time.

As he stares, the sickening wrongness of the situation strikes him. Stiles was with Peter. Not him. The older wolf had warped his opinion, and he needed to change that! Suddenly, he realised the boy's skin was unmarred, and he didn't seem to be injured in any way.

"How did you heal?" He asked brusquely, watching the teens eyes widen, and his breathing hitch.

Stiles shrugged halfheartedly, unwilling to talk to his former best friend. He'd betrayed him so much, and had yet to utter even an apology. He edged backwards, back hitting the wall. Shit.

Scott stepped forward, eyes confused, head tilted to the side. "What are you now?" He flared his nostrils, searching for a change in scent, but found nothing but the stench of fear.

Stiles remained silent, hands clenched at his side and eyes flitting to the door.

"I forgive you, Stiles," Scott says, earnestly staring at the teen. He inched closer, reaching out a questioning hand. "I can get the pack to forgive you, too, I think. If you tell us what you are because you could help the pack, Stiles!" Scott grinned as if that was the best news he could've broken. "That's what you wanted, right?" His face had broken into a full grin now, and he walked forward another step, now standing directly in front of Stiles.

Stiles stared, computing what he just heard. Clenching his fists, his breathing became laboured, and he straightened, meeting eyes with Scott. "You can't forgive me, Scott." He murmured, voice trembling with barely contained rage.

Scott blinked, then shook his head. "I can, it's okay, dude!" He reached an arm forward, grabbing Stiles shoulder.

The air crackled, and suddenly Scott was thrown across the classroom, landing with a pained grunt against the blackboard, bones slowly mending and knitting back together. His eyes flared red, and he glared, equal parts confused and angered.

"You can't forgive me, Scott, because I didn't do anything wrong." Stiles continued, walking forward, picking up his discarded bag from next to the door.

Scott stood up, staggering forward. His face darkened, and he refused to consider how wrong his opinion was. "You hurt us all, Stiles!" He roared, "You left us in the forest alone and vulnerable!"

Stiles turned, slowly, eyes hard, then his lip quirked upwards, an unpleasant grin contrasting the venom in his eyes. "I...Left you?" He asks, incredulously, watching Scott nod uneasily. Stiles chuckled, eyes going dark. "Y'know, I made some great friends when I left your pack." He spat the word, disgust clear in his tone as he ridiculed the idea of the unruly teens ever having any other relationship than strained loyalty.

"Peter's pretty great too," He continued, smiling fully now, almost manic. "I'm happier than I have been for a long long time, since before this werewolf bullshit!" He snarled, fingers curling in barely contained rage as he watched Scott scramble upright, staring at him wordlessly.

Stiles ambled forward, reaching down to retrieve his discarded bag, never taking his eyes off of the teen in front of him. His composure wilted, and suddenly he was the anxious, scarred boy he was who hid in the masses of crowds, slipping through corridors innocuously. Scott frowned, then slipped a hand on Stiles' shoulder.

"I get that you're angry..." He mumbled uncomfortably, evidently unbelieving of his own words. "But you belong to us." His voice was lower than a whisper but grated on the other teen's ears as if it was a trivial whine.

"Peter's corrupted you, Stiles." Scott murmured.

A sharp breath leaves the Werau's chest, and he stares wide-eyed at his former best friend. Taking deep breaths, he tries to steady the loud thumping of his heart reverberating in his ears. He gulps, steadying his feet on the ground, swaying slightly.

Scott stands next to him, torn between a sense of smug satisfaction, and a new feeling of wariness. Stiles had changed. As he debated walking away, the other teen spoke.

"You were.." Stiles began, struggling to find the right words. "The most arrogant, yet somehow...the kindest, the best person I knew." He finishes, smiling, shadowy memories of hushed giggles and breathless conversations filling his mind. Scott smiled gently, a hope of the boy's friendship returning. Stiles remained impassive. "Now, I know you're still arrogant, still the biggest imbecile I know." Stiles bit out, words enunciated harshly.

"And you still don't have the ability to see change." He whispered. Head falling. "You've hurt me...so fucking much, Scott!" He says, voice raw with sudden emotion. The Were narrows his eyes, unwilling to see past the accusation.

"I was so hurt. I still am..." Stiles admits, almost an afterthought. "And Peter, my dad, Nadia, Penny..." Scott tilts his head confusedly at the new names. "They're helping me like you never did." Stiles finished.

He opened the classroom door, walking forward. "Don't try to contact me, and pass that on to the rest of your...pack." He says cooly, voice hard. Scott scrambles forward, barring the way desperately.

"Stiles!" He shouts frantically, unsure what to say. Stiles comes to a halt, smirking lightly. Scott had it coming to him. He places a hand on the Weres wrist, tightening when Scott yells, trying to pull away. His eyes flash red, then slowly change to a glowing blue, pained roars filling the room. Stiles let's go, watching silently when Scott stumbles away, crashing into a desk behind him, cradling his now burnt, scalded wrist.

"You killed my innocence, Scott. You just didn't realise it" He murmurs, before walking through the door, ignoring the stunned looks of students filing around the door to the classroom.

Scott lay limp against the floor, ragged breathing slowing to a strained whimper, as he stared at the slowly healing skin of his arm. As he staggered upwards, his eyes flashed, and he stiffened. Staring into his reflection in the murky windows, he growled, eyes widening, showing the piercing blue glow of a killer. Scott was no true alpha now.


	25. Blue Eyes

Coughing loudly, Stiles bats away the cobwebs entwining around his fingers. Peter snickers, instantly regretting it when an offended Stiles deposits the cobwebs into his perfectly coiffed hair. He sighs loudly, failing to keep the smile off of his face, then carefully navigates through the clustered attic, holding an almost full cardboard box.

The two work steadily, using a traffic light system to decide what they're taking to the new house, what they're still deliberating about, and what's not coming. Huffing tiredly, Peter places a worn bauble into the box, before reclining onto the sloping walls. Stiles looks over, smiling gently, before coming to sit next to him. The two watch the dust swirl in mesmerising trails through the minimal light in silence, enjoying the brief stint of silence.

Peter looks over at the teen, eyeing his nostalgic expression. Stiles startles, blushing under Peter's stare. "What, do I still have cobwebs in my hair?" He jokes, combing through it, doing nothing to help the mess. Peter grins, shaking his head.

"No, I was just watching you." He states plainly, unashamed.

Stiles smirks, waggling his eyebrows ridiculously. "I can see why, creeper-wolf."

Peter frowns, lazily letting his fangs drop, glinting in the light. Stiles snorts, rummaging through the disregarder box, before unnaturally stilling. Peter quirks a confused eyebrow, and leans forward, curious to see what caused the boy such shock. The teen quietly pulls out a weathered book, the corners crumpled and bent, the cover dusty.

Flicking through the pages, he set the book on his lap, leaning into Peter's side. The Were stares at the photos, chuckling at the photos of the rosy-cheeked boy with various members of his family. Stiles stills on a weathered photo, fingers tracing the faces.

A woman, Stiles mother, he thinks, is stretched out over an old couch, the one still downstairs, precariously attaching tinsel to a curtain rod. A toddler easily identified as Stiles gleefully stands beneath her, clutching handfuls of the tinsel, a pair of decorative antlers precariously perched on his head.

"Me and mum on my fourth Christmas." Stiles murmured softly, rubbing his thumb over the indents of the dates written on the back of the photo. Peter smiles lightly, squeezing the Werau's hand. "I still remember being really attached to those antlers." He chuckles, mouth twisted up wistfully.

"You were adorable," Peter says quietly, eyes trained on the dusty photo in awe. Stiles looks at him, a moment of silence. He tightens his grip on his hand, and ducks his head.

"Are you saying I'm not adorable now?" He challenges, eyebrow quirked. Peter huffs, shaking his head in amusement.

"You always have been and you always will be, Stiles." He returns, putting the book back into the box and descending down the stairs onto the landing, Stiles crawls over the opening, looking below. Peter beckons him down, until he follows him, nearly falling in the process.

Stacking the box onto a pile of similar boxes, Peter sits at the kitchen table, Stiles rooting through the now bare cupboards for lunch. Five minutes later, they find themselves eating a healthy array of pop tarts, microwaved macaroni and red bull.

"Graduation tomorrow, then we're leaving," Stiles remarked, face showing how daunting the sudden approach of the move was.

Peter nods, setting down his fork. "No more Beacon Hills." He says, sarcastically toasting. Stiles clacks his own glass against the Weres, then jumps at the loud knocking on the door. Peter narrows his eyes, a murmured "Derek and Scott" before he heads for the door, Stiles frantically following behind.

Yanking the door open, Peter stands in the doorway, barring view into the house. Crossing his arms, he nods his head brusquely, unwilling to greet the pair. Stiles pushes past him, eyeing Derek and Scott warily. The intruders stand awkwardly in a defensive stance on the doormat, eyes cautious.

"What do you want?" Stiles demands plainly. Leaning against the doorframe.

"Make me an alpha again!" Scott snarls, rearing forward and flashing his icy blue eyes as Derek pulls him back, claws on the back of his jacket. Derek growls, shaking his head.

Peter laughs disbelievingly, staring at Scott and then Stiles. "Well, that's a development." He mutters amusedly, smirking. Stiles high fives him, ignoring the raging wolf in front of them.

Derek steps forward, scowl firmly in place. "You're in Hale territory." He rumbles, eyes downcast. Stiles scoffs, Peter rolling his eyes, shaking his head in incredulity. "We can't have another unannounced pack here."

"Not that you've ever bothered with pack politics, but there's no need to worry yourself, we'll be gone in two days," Stiles says breezily, finally addressing the heaped boxes behind him. Scott's eyes widen, and he looks wounded.

Derek nods slowly, barely containing his confusion. Scott moves forward, angry again. "My eyes..." He rumbles. Making them flare to further his point. Stiles looks forward, attempting to look concerned, but failing miserably.

"Sorry Scottie," Stiles sings, the Were cringing at the fake normality. "But that kind of thing is irreversible...and something I can't tamper with." Scott's eyes widen, and he stumbles back as if scalded. "Sadly my comment was only for dramatic effect...is there something you'd like to share with the class?" He drawls sarcastically, waiting to see the other's reaction.

Derek loosens his grip on the younger Were, letting his hand to his side in bewilderment. He backs away, waiting for an explanation. The air is stagnant, and Peter listens to Scotts heartbeat climb.

"What're they talking about, Scott?" Derek demands finally, eyes accusing. Scott shakes his head frantically, Peter steps past Stiles, now invested in the result of the conversation.

"...I'm...I..." Scott whimpers, gasping for air, seemingly crumbling in on himself. He stares at Derek and Peter, both increasingly bewildered.

"What do you mean?" Derek rumbles, voice steady and barely contained. Peter steps forward, glaring at Scott.

Scott starts to tremble, bringing shaking hands to his eyes as if trying to hide their piercing blue. "I...Cora..."

Stiles approaches him swiftly, wary, suddenly aware he'd uncovered something much bigger than he'd thought. He gripped the Were's wrist, then stumbled back, dumbfounded, ripping his hand away and landing on Peter. The older Were steadies him, inquisitively demanding to know what he saw. Stiles breathed deeply, ignoring Scott's terrified face to tell the new news.

"He killed Cora." His voice cracked, face pained. Derek stilled, face slacked. "He killed her, she never went back to South America, he killed her and hid her body." His voice turns monotone as he tries not to break down. Peter whimpers behind him, stricken. "He went to Deaton and tricked him, somehow forging fake bonds between you and Cora before weaning you off of them until you couldn't feel her at all, but never noticed." Scott stands still, seemingly rooted to the spot, betrayal at the words clear in his face. Peter stares at him, face filled with fury.

Stiles stumbled forward, eyes dark as he glared disbelievingly at his former best friend. "Your eyes turned blue after you killed her, so you managed to trick Deaton again..." The shock makes his voice crack, and he struggles to go on. "And you managed to give yourself a fake alpha status...claiming you were a true alpha!" He spits the words, disgust clear in every syllable. "My magic was too strong for your...concoction and reverted your eyes back to what they truly are." He whispers the last sentence, eyes distance, face unreadable.

"You enjoyed it!" He whimpers, face accusatory, close to hyperventilating. "You...shredded her skin and enjoyed it! And then you came back with a fucking fake god complex..." He spat, tears streaming down his face, staggering towards the rabid Were. Derek lunged forward, a growl escaping his throat, followed shortly by Peter, who sprung after Scott.

Scott growled, hate in his eyes as he glared at his former best friend, before he ran, sprinting towards the forest line, Derek and Peter at his heels.

Stiles stood in silence, cheeks wet, staring at their retreating backs. His breaths came hard and fast, and he collapsed shaking on the ground, thoughts pounding.

Scott had killed Cora.


	26. Supreme

Running through the trees, Peter ignored the sharp sensation of twigs cutting past his skin. Derek thundered behind him, growling reverberating in Peter's sensitive ears. His fangs pushed against his lips as he struggled to control his wolf, heart hammering in his ribs.

The scent of the younger wolf was fresh in front of them, he was still ignorant of how to mask it, luckily. Speeding up, Peter leapt over a wayward log, catching sight of Scotts jacket, as it flapped in the wind behind him. He roared, raging and pained, still mourning the loss of his sister.

The teen looked behind him, face panicked, Peter took a moment to bask in the glory of the fear he'd induced in him, before Scott stumbled, falling to the floor, scrambling straight up, but losing enough time that Peter was right behind him, claws sinking into his calves.

Scott roared, eyes pained, eyes blue, and struggled to break free, before growing still as Derek gripped his arm roughly, he was overpowered. His face turned cool, and he panted roughly, waiting for the two to inevitably rip him to shreds.

Peter stared at him, eyes full of animosity and disgust, giving him a sickening grin before popping his claws, flexing his fingers, taking his time. Derek looked up at his uncle and shook his head minutely, Peter scoffing in disbelief.

"I don't care how, Derek, but he'll be dead by the end of the night." He snarled, claws digging deeper into the silent boy beneath him.

Derek nodded vehemently, clenching his jaw, before speaking. "Why?" He asked plainly, staring at Scott.

Scott looked at him, a frenzied grimace giving way to a nervous smirk as he basked in their pain. "Why did I kill her?" He reiterates, squirming when Peter grips him harder. "She was a Hale." He murmurs, grin malicious as he watches the disgusted confusion on the two's faces. "Part of one of the most powerful packs in America, until most of them were killed." He states, a light frown on his face. Derek whimpered, eyes moist and clouded over. Peter looks at him soundlessly, frown in place.

Scott looks into the distance, eyes frantically darting over the two Weres and the surrounding forestry. "Why did you kill...her," Derek repeats, grinding his teeth in rage.

"Power!" Scott roars suddenly, bucking under them, struggling again. Peter slices into his neck until he slumps defeated again. "I'll do it to all the Hales I can when I'm back." He grins, eyes crazy as his head lolls, blood trickling under his chin. Peter scoffs, shaking his head and tutting.

"Didn't you hear me, pup?" He says, emphasising the last word sickeningly as he smiles falsely down at him. "You're not going to be alive after tonight." He threatens, conviction ringing clear. Scott laughs vainly and fixes his eyes on Peter.

"But I will be, Peter!" He says as if trying to persuade the older man. "I'm meant to be an alpha. I've known ever since I became a wolf." He states, sunny smile outrageously wrong in the situation. Derek stares wide-eyed as the boy rambles on, oblivious to the murderous looks on their faces. "And when I die," He murmurs, smile still in place. "I'll be reborn, even stronger than before! The second I die, I'll be back...a real true alpha." He sighs dreamily, slack in their grip.

Peter roars, face inches away from the Were, giving way to the animosity beneath his usually composed face. Scott ignores him, still grinning manically up at the darkening sky. "It's okay, it's all okay." He murmured madly, eyes darting everywhere. "I'm protecting my pack..."

Derek looks down, face drained as he takes in the vast change in Scott. "How long has she been dead?" He asks quietly, voice carefully blank, trying to hide the quiver.

"Three months," Scott says, looking troubled for the first time. "It was hard trying to hide her body, and not have any of you realise." He murmurs, a thoughtful expression on his face. "I had to take her heart." He continues obliviously, not seeing the hysteria on the faces above him. "And connect her to my life force. I don't know how it worked, but you were feeling my bond, not hers! And when I die, I'll get her powers to join mine, and I'll be reincarnated as the supreme true alpha!" He smiles sunnily, disgustingly proud of his revelation.

Peter stared, eyes blank as he racked his brain to think of an instance when his bond with his sister had changed, at all. He came up with nothing. They'd already been growing apart, but they were family! How did Scott, an inexperienced wolf do it? "How did you do it?" He demands, echoing his thoughts.

Scott looks at him, then his face wrinkles. "It said it was dark magic." He says brazenly. Derek and Peter stare confusedly, magic? Scott? Scott couldn't do magic. And where did he hear about it? "I found it, the book" He corrects himself. "At Deaton's." The two older Weres share a look, understanding minutely. "Before Cora, before I took on my real alpha form."

Peter narrows his eyes, disgusted by the boy's psychopathic naivety.

"It told me how to become more powerful through killing someone, someone who was more powerful than me." He smiles, nodding at Derek. "That's Cora." He adds unnecessarily. Derek tightens his claws, breaking the healed skin again. Scott frowned. "I killed her, then learnt how to turn my eyes red, how they always should have been!" He beams, eyes dreamy again. "Who knew I could do magic, huh?" He adds, as an afterthought.

Peter shakes his head, disgust etched into the stressed lines. "We're going to make sure you stay dead." He promises, a cold smile stretching over his grim expression.

"Like you did, Peter?" Scott returns cockily, chuckling at his own joke.

Peter tuts, releasing the boy so only Derek held him to extend his claws again, letting them glint in the now moonlight. Scott moves in a flash, scrambling away from Derek's slack hold, Peter roaring again. Scott stumbles back, maniacal grin stuck on his face.

"I won't be dead long!" He shouts, grinning. Swiftly extending his claws, he raises them to his throat, slashing it in an instance, crumpling to the floor as his blood soaked into the ground.

Derek flares his eyes, and the now red irises focus on the body in front of him. He was the alpha now, by default, the charge of the Hale posse.

They stare at the figure on the ground, lifeless, yet somehow still euphoric and elated in his death. The blood spreads, coating the forest floor, tainting the air with its copper tang. Peter watches silently, nothing. Scott was dead, and he wasn't coming back.


	27. The Best Of Us

Peter stood silently next to Derek, not looking at his nephew. They both stared at Scott's body, the blood pooling around it. Crouching slowly, Peter stared into the glassy dead eyes of the young Were. Shuffling back, he reached in his back pocket and produced a lighter, flicking it twice, before producing a flame. A spike of confusion came from Derek, who stared on silently.

"I've got to purify it," Peter muttered, face hard. "Can't risk the idiot actually coming back to life, not that there was ever a chance."

Derek nodded faintly, eyes wide.

Peter gritted his teeth and brought the flame closer to the body. Behind him, he heard Derek's sharp intake of breath and the hammering of his nervous heart. He couldn't bring himself to care.

The flame caught on.

Twining swiftly around the swathes of fabric and then skin, they encompassed Scott's lifeless body, turning the mottled skin red, then smoking black.

Derek stumbled back, the acrid scent hitting the back of his throat, eyes wide, he turned around, running away from the scene of his uncle crouching in front of the dead body.

Peter turned, stony eyes fixed on the retreating figure loping through the woods. As the body began to smoke, long since recognisable, he stood up, eye twitching at the foul stench of burning flesh. Pocketing the lighter, Peter stood up and retreated leaning against a nearby tree to put distance between him and the stench.

Taking in even breaths of air, the Were tried to keep the tremble out of his hands. Seeing an all-consuming fire again after such a long time sucked him into a deep, dark hole of memories, making his fingers shake, and mouth set into a tight frown.

In, and out. In, and out. Peter reminded himself, shakily bringing his hand up in an aborted attempt to reawaken his eyes from their panicked daze. In, and out.

A while passed, the body becoming shrivelled and charred, the ground blackened beneath it as Peter waited. When the smoke began to diminish, he guardedly walked closer to the remains, nudging them with a boot. Face hard, he grimaced and rolled it fully over to reveal the sooty earth below it. Kneeling down, he steadied his hand and released his claws, letting them glint in the darkening light.

Beginning to rake at the ground, he internally grimaced, vowing to throw out every single piece of clothing he was wearing to rid himself of the dirt and remains. After a time, the ditch widened into a deep hole, and Peter stood up, coughing tiredly. Brushing off his jeans, he made his way over to Scotts' body and nudged it into the hole with his shoe, grimacing at the dull thud it made when it hit the bottom.

Staring down into the pit, he stared at the remains of the young Were. The circumstances were too similar to that of the past. But this time, there was no murder, his brain supplied, and Peter reluctantly squashed down the ache in his chest at the thought of another death.

After filling in the hole with tightly packed soil, Peter surveyed his handiwork, disdainfully glaring at the mud caked under his nails. The act of covering and burying the body had calmed him a fraction, allowing him to relax at the thought that Scott wasn't only purified with fire, but unable to get back out.

Looking up, he surveyed his surroundings, noting ho far into the woods the sight was. Making a note to talk to John, he turned home, already debating the least difficult way to smooth over the effects of Scott's death with his mother and his pack.

Shaking his head, and promising to think about it later, his thoughts strayed to Stiles. Batting a low lying branch out of his face irritably, he sighed, thinking about how the events would be yet another toll on Stiles. Even if the two were far from friends, they'd been tied at the hip for over a decade before that, and those memories were unlikely to disappear instantly.

Quickening his pace to a run, he berated himself for forgetting his phone as thoughts of Stiles pacing his house, finding new ways to worry about the events filled his head.

Relief filled him as he saw the dim lights of the now approaching town filling his vision. Slowing to a jog, he neared the door of the Stilinski household. Raising his hand to knock, he hesitated, then opened the door.

He heard Stiles' breath hitch, and then a loud clattering as he ran out into the hallway. He stumbled back as the teen hugged him ferociously, breath coming fast as he tightened his arms around the Were. Peter pulled him closer soundlessly, burying his face into Stile's neck.

Pulling back frantically, Stiles looked at Peter, a worried, panicked look on his pale face. "What happened?" He demanded, gripping Peter's hand like a vice.

Peter's face remained grim, and his jaw hardened. He struggled to find the right words but came up blank. Stiles gritted his teeth, and stepped forward, letting his palm cup Peter's cheek. A startled breath escaped the older Were's mouth, as he watched Stiles' face go blank.

Seconds went by, before Stiles yanked his hand away viciously, tragic shock painted onto his features. His mouth fell open, and his lip began to wobble minutely. Peter rushed forward, face collapsing as he realised what had happened.

Stiles saw his memories. Stiles saw Scott die.

The teen collapsed, Peter barely catching him, leading them to the sofa as Stiles began to sob. John rounded the corner to the room, eyes concerned as Peter shook his head minutely as he cradled Stiles in his arms.

They stayed in the position for hours, Peter quietly comforting Stiles as he dealt with the new addition to the deaths of Beacon Hills. His cheeks were puffy and red, raw from the many tears that irritated them. Entering a restless sleep, Stiles slumped into the cushions, hands growing slack around Peters.

Gently laying his mate down onto the couch, Peter stood up, eyes dark, to go and relate to the sheriff all that had happened. He found him in the study, bent over piles of paperwork. Looking up, he pushed the paper away and stood up.

"What happened?" He asked quietly, unwilling to wake up the teen in the other room.

Peter let out a drawn-out sigh and collapsed onto a nearby wall. John joined him on a nearby chair, fingers fiddling with the upholstery absentmindedly. Peter stared, noticing the likeliness between John and his son.

"Scott died." He murmured, eyes on the ground.

John's heartbeat hitched, and his eyes widened.

"He killed himself." Peter continued, Johns eyes widening more. "He thought he'd come back to life as a more powerful alpha." His tone turned disgusted and weak. "He killed Cora." He whispered.

John gritted his teeth, and stood up, hugging Peter tightly. Peter huffed, once again shocked, but took the hug for what it was. A silent apology.

The two sat down whilst Peter recounted the confrontation, and John rubbed a weathered hand over his stressed, tired face. "I'll have to talk to Melissa." He murmured, eyes cast on the clock, reading 2:47 am. "Does she know?" He asked Peter.

Peter looked confused before understanding dawned on him. "No. She has no idea werewolves exist. Or that her son was one." Shifting uneasily, he looked pensive.

"What?" John asked, expecting the worst.

"I just don't think she'll believe us," Peter mumbled, eyes downcast. "It would be best to let Stiles' show her. But..."

He exchanged looks with John, who frowned, unwilling to let his son rewatch the vivid memories again.

"Let me show what?" A drained voice came from the doorway, and Peter jumped, cursing himself at not listening to his senses.

John walked over, enveloping Stiles in a hug. Stiles returned it gratefully, wilting into John.

"Peter told me what happened," John said, voice low, avoiding the teens' question. Stiles tensed up, body stiff.

"It's...fine. I'm fine." He said steadily, but shakily. "The asshole deserved it." He murmured darkly. "I just wonder what that Scott did to destroy the one I loved, y'know?"

Peter frowned, wishing he was able to get rid of Stiles' pain. Stepping forward, he entwined his fingers with the teens', squeezing hard.

"Happens to the best of us." He mumbles.


	28. Return to the Hale House

Slowly blinking, Peter turned his head, taking in the figure next to him, sleeping in the darkened room. Stiles. He looks so peaceful, Peter thought, regretful he hadn't managed to make every single one of his waking moment just as peaceful. Letting the steady heartbeat lull him into the void between sleep and wakefulness, he thinks about Stiles' reaction to Scott's death. He'd gradually come out of his shell again, the ache in his heart diminishing, but Peter knew it would take years to fully abate, and even then, the memories would still be painful.

Peters thoughts drifted back to the time he had suffered the loss of his family, and the pain and hurt that had stayed with him for a decade after. It wasn't easy, still. It never would be. But he'd learnt to mask it, and distract himself, and learn not to suffer the guilt of surviving. He'd made it, and he needed to prove that he could keep surviving!

Looking at the graduation cap hooked on the side of the desk chair, he smiled, thinking about Stiles' excitement for his graduation the next day. After so much pain and suffering, he could finally leave! Peter was so, so ready to leave with him.

Sitting up, he let the sheets pool around his waist as he turned to Stiles. Gently pushing his shoulder, he waited for the teen to wake up. "Stiles..?" He murmured, chuckling at the displeased groan from the unresponsive teen.

"It's to early, come back to sleep!" Stiles mumbled, reaching his hands up to Peter, pulling him down. Peter huffed, and shook his head, grinning as Stiles frowned sleepily.

"I'm going to get some old stuff from the house." He murmured, Stiles, opening his eyes fully, scrambling upright, eyes concerned as he as he stared at Peter.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Stiles asked quietly, squeezing his hand. Peter hummed, and shook his head, smiling lightly, Stiles pouted in mock offence and clutched his hands to his chest.

"I love you, and I want you to stay in bed and sleep like you secretly want to do," He grins, Stiles laughs disbelievingly, prepared to object, before shaking his head in amusement. Peter was right, after all, Stiles did love his sleep. But he loved Peter too! And he would get out of bed at an ungodly hour for him anytime! Maybe?

"Have fun, then, boyfriend o' mine." He sing-songs, retreating back under his duvet until Peter could only see a tuft of hair protruding out of the bed. Snorting, Peter slowly pulled the duvet down to kiss Stiles on the forehead, then left to get changed.

Fifteen minutes later, he shut the front door, letting out a long sigh, happy to breathe in the fresh, forest air again, it never failed to relax him. Crossing the street, he smiles blandly at an elderly lady walking in the opposite way to him, who stares for a second, then returns the grin enthusiastically.

"Good morning, miss," Peter smiles, walking past her, uncomfortably stopping when she slows in front of him.

"Morning! It's Mrs Hutchins, but you can call me Anne!" She says, face kind and mock flirtatious, extending a hand to shake Peter's.

He smiles openly, surprised at the warm, welcoming action, and shakes the hand of the lady enthusiastically. "I'm Peter," He grins, face happy. It had been a long time since people in the Beacon Hills had been at all hospitable to the Were, and he hadn't realised just how much he had missed it.

Smiling shyly, Anne smiles one last time at Peter, then continues down the street, humming to herself as she shouldered her bag. Peter looks after her, a small smile on his elated face. Shaking his head amusedly, he continues down the road towards the woods until he hears a banging.

Looking up in confusion, he sees Stiles banging on his windows, bright smile on his face. Seeing he got the mans attention, he grins, giving him a thumbs up, before waving. Peter laughed, then gave him a thumbs up in return, walking away with a lighter, more content step.

Spotting the dirt path leading into the cluster of trees, he jogged over to it, slowing to a walk as he entered the shade of the forest. Fifteen minutes later, he found himself ducking under the branches and low-lying trees, until he hesitated, seeing the husk of the burned out house filtering through the trees.

Catching his breath, Peter slowed to a halt, only feet away from his old home, now reduced to a mere shell of its former glory. Stepping closer cautiously, he lets out a shuddering breath, clenching his fists in an attempt to stop the onslaught of pain.

Squaring his shoulders, he goes in, staring past the blackened walls and scorched remains of furniture, until he stood crouching in the corner of the quiet room. The lounge. Eyes trained on the burnt floorboards, he gently tests the closest one, shaking his head minutely as it stubbornly stays in place. Going along the wall methodically, he gasps in relief as one of the warped floorboards falls out of place, revealing a dull glint beneath it.

Peter smiles, reaching in and gently retrieving the now dusty ring, so different to how it was the last time he had seen it. It was his brother's wedding ring, made to match Talias. As the thought crosses his mind, he frowns, wondering where the other ring was. Talia and his brother had left them there during the fire, when there was no hope of them escaping, in the hopes that the wood would save them from being obliterated by the fire.

Slowly standing up, he turns around, eyes on the ring in his clasped hand and his face furrowed in confusion. Looking up, his heart jumps, but his face remained impassive. Derek stood in front of him, the usual glare that adorned his face a little more helpless and vulnerable than usual.

"I have it," Derek said softly. Peter quirked an eyebrow, unimpressed before Derek lifted a string that lay around his neck out of the confines of his shirt, weakly showing a similar ring to the one in Peters' hand to him.

"I see. And I suppose you want to keep it." Peter frowns, shaking his head before heading out of the room, passing him. Derek stares, and then moves frantically, his hand outstretched as he grabs Peters arm. Stiffening, he hastily retreats it, as Peter turns around and looks at him questioningly.

"Why do you want them?" Derek asks quietly, not meeting Peters' eyes. Peter goes still, fiddling with the ring in his hands as his gaze is fixed on the one around Derek's neck.

"I have plans in the far future involving the giving of rings, and I wanted to make sure it was special," Peter replied cooly, gaze hard. Derek stared, equal parts flabbergasted and curious. Peter was planning to marry?

"Who?" Derek demanded, striding forward, ignoring Peters harried sigh.

"I see no reason to tell you," Smirked his uncle, enjoying the annoyance on his nephew's face. Derek just growled, waiting for an adequate response. Peter rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "Stiles." He utters, simply, smiling, despite the thought.

Derek withdraws, scowl back firmly on his face. "Oh." He mumbles, fiddling undecidedly with the ring. "Okay." Peter nods warily, unsure how the younger Were will take the news. "I'm sorry, about...everything," Derek whispers, eyes troubled.

Peter stands in front of him silently, eyes hard. "I'm not the one you let down." He glares, heavily hinting. Stiles. Derek nods apprehensively but looks nervous. Peter sighs, shaking his head. "I don't think Stiles wants to see you, or that he ever will. You were the worst of the worst, Derek. Sort your shit out." Derek gapes, flustered, nodding uncomfortably.

"Ok," He mumbles, watching Peter scoff in disgust.

"You really don't care, huh?" Peter asks words dripped in venom.

Derek stands rigid, saying nothing. Peter glares at him, before wilting. "This isn't going anywhere, so I'm going to go. Goodbye, nephew." He says, cooly. before turning away and striding out of the house. Good riddance.

As he reaches the forest line, he hears the soft chink of something falling to the ground, stiffening, he looks down and sees the ring on the ground, the string it was on sitting in stark contrast against the dark soil. Looking back, he sees Derek turning back into the house. Slowly reaching down, Peter grabs the ring and slips it into his pocket with the other. Though he didn't plan to marry Stiles anytime soon, it only seemed right that when they had been settled into their new house for a couple of years, to ask the big question, Stiles and Peter were soulmates! It was literally written in the stars.!

Happily, Peter smiled, turning back to the first path to return to the Stilinski household, wrings sitting heavy against his leg in his pocket. The bands of metal promised love, and acceptance, both of which Peter sorely missed.


	29. Graduation

"Josh Fenton"

Each name is followed by a brief pause then a smattering of applause as the principal distributes the certificates, everyone having their own small speeches to drone out to the seated people before them, like sitting ducks.

The principal's voice droned on, Stiles listening as he tapped his feet rapidly against his chair leg. He fiddled with the hem of his robe as he watched his fellow classmates step onto the stage to receive a short bout of applause and a witty remark.

"Emma Winters"

Looking up, he internally groaned as he watched the old Hale pack herd around the front of the stage, staring up at each of the newcomers, despite their varying levels of discomfort. Quickly looking back at the floor, he narrowly missed Isaacs eyes as he looked over at him, a pained look on his face from under his graduation cap.

"Lana Seera"

Peter smiled grimly at Stiles, joining their hands together in his lap, ignoring Nadia and her overdramatic pouting face as she waggled her eyebrows at their joined hands.

Empaths.

"Jamie Grindall"

Stiles smiled weakly, nervously pushing his cap onto his head, flicking the tassel irritatedly out of his face. He'd been looking forward to this, he had! But now it felt like one long personal attack on his emotional wellbeing.

"Stiles Stilinski"

The monotonous voice strikes again, only this time, Stiles has to react. He stands and begins to stumble through the rows of chairs towards the stage, hating the outstretched moment of heavy silence. Walking up the steps to the stage, he felt the stare of his own pack and the hale pack on him. Seeing the principal smile, he focused his attention on him, and only him.

In, and out. In, and out.

Breathing shakily, Stiles grimaced as he shook the principal's hand, and accepted a chaste side hug. Doing a semi-dramatic mini bow towards the audience and his past peers, he swiftly exited the stage, feeling a pang of nostalgia as he stared down at the certificate in his hands.

Scott should have been here too. Not the awful, broken Scott on the day of his death, but the innocent, joyous kid Sties grew up with. The supernatural had fucked him up, it had fucked all of them up. Gripping onto the paper with unsteady hands, he headed back to his seat and accepted his dad's glee with a much brighter grin.

"Well done, kiddo, well done." He said, a fond smile on his face.

Stiles chuckled and quirked an eyebrow. "Huh, really? I got the impression you were a bit annoyed you saw me at the station so much." He grinned cheekily, hinting to the various times he'd had run-ins with the law, watching his dad's exasperated huff.

"Yeah, now you say it, that part left a little to be desired," John said drily, amused but disapproving face struggling not to laugh. It all seemed so minuscule next to the events of the last couple of years. Stiles had been through a lot, and John could let his sons few visits in the back of a cop car off of the hook.

"Are we still going to the diner after this?" Penny asked, leaning forward between Peter and Stiles from a seat behind them. Stiles looked at her, nodding enthusiastically. "Who do you take me for, a lightweight?" He asked, gesturing wildly.

Penny snorted, shaking her head. "You have to know you're using that word in the wrong way, right?"

"Yup," Stiles replied cheerfully, settling back into his seat calmly. Penny laughs loudly, blushing red when a few disgruntled parents turn round to frown at her. She whispers a hurried sorry, shrinking back into her seat as Stiles sticks his tongue out at her.

Battle? Won.

Another hour and a half passed, as the year group rejoins on the stage, grimacing for the flash of their family's cameras until they can finally go, and be free of the school.

Stiles beamed, jumping up and down gleefully next to a bemused Peter, sending his cap flying off of his head onto Penny, who squeaked with `surprise, laughing and returning the cap onto his head.

"Thanks," Stiles snorted, bowing dramatically, hastily picking up the cap as it fell back off. Peter laughed, shaking his head disbelievingly. The two laced their hands together, promptly ignoring the disapproving looks of the various milling parents around them.

Crowding into the battered jeep, they fill the short ride to the diner with recounts of the past year, and all of the antics that had somehow ciphered through the awful events that had frequented their little town.

Fifteen minutes later the jeep roared into the diners car park and sputtered to an eventual stop, the pack spilling out in an excited scramble, rushing towards the door.

"So did you get your letter yet, from Berkeley?" Nadia asked casually, fiddling with her straw in mock disinterest. Stiles stilled, face stony. Peter stared at him with a worried expression as he squeezed his hand gently#

"I..." Stiles started, face dull, before breaking into a large grin. "Got in!" He yelled, doing a victory dance as Penny and Nadia whooped and cheered, attracting the attention of other eaters, without caring.

Launching across the table to hug him, almost knocking over her milkshake, before Peter quickly moved it. Stiles laughed, the joy clear on his face. John beamed, ridiculously proud of his wayward son. He was the best shitshow he knew, and he meant it in the best of ways.


	30. The Funeral

Sitting against the wall, Stiles watched as the rain ran down the window, racing against the cool glass beneath the dull sky. Frowning, he regards the grey clouds, wondering how it could reflect his mood so perfectly. Besides, how often did it rain in California?

It was Scott's funeral in four hours. In the forest, only steps away from the sight of his death. Melissa didn't have the heart to move him, and Stiles could easily think of why. The charred remains were only the rawest form of his remains. No one wanted to see the final form of Scott Mcall.

Fiddling with his sleeve, he sighs, slowly letting his head fall back, eyes still on the water droplets marring the clear glass of his window. Looking up, he stiffens, then relaxes, a tight smile on his face. Peter.

"Peter." Stiles hums, shifting over as the Were joins him, sitting on the rough carpet of the floor.

"Stiles" Peter replies, taking his hand and lacing his fingers through Stiles'. letting him lean into him, his thoughts drift to the upcoming funeral. "Are we going to go to the funeral?" He ventures quietly, unwilling to hurt Stiles further, but unable to ignore the everpresent issue.

Stiles squeezed his hand, a faint scowl on his pale face. He didn't want to answer the question so soon, because he wasn't sure he had an answer to give Peter. But unlike some problems, this one couldn't just be ignored in the hopes that it would disappear, alike to many that had happened in the past year.

"Your dad is going, to support Melissa," Peter started, keen eyes on Stiles' expression, so far it remained as closed off as it had been for the entire conversation. "But if you...don't want to be there, then that's absolutely fine." Peter soothes, worried by the usually loud boy's silence.

Stiles frowned, and sat up, adjusting his now aching back with a grimace. Finally, after stalling as much as he could, he turned to Peter. "I want to go." He said slowly, leg bouncing up and down as he internally wished it to stop. Peter nodded cautiously. "Bit his entire pack will be there-" His voice cracks. "And I really don't want to see them." He sniffles, smiling wetly when Peter pulls him in for a hug. He wanted to be there, for any remnant of his best friend, who had died before his body had, but the old pack still tightened his chest, constricted his breathing, whenever they were near.

"Then it's not an issue, little spark." Peter smiles into his hair, clasping his arms around the wiry boy.

Stiles miserably drags his knuckles across his eyes, trying to get rid of the tears, and snickers. "I'm not even a spark, creeperwolf."

Peter rolls his eyes fondly, both at the nickname Stiles had given him, and the return of his ability to snark and joke. Looking out through the window, he idly watches the passing cars and the people scurrying down the streets, off to their own lives, through the rain, each thinking their own complex thoughts. People watching had become something of a sport for Peter, and he found it rather entertaining to imagine the stories going with each person.

Jolting back to the current moment, he softly chuckles, smiling warmly as he sees Stiles had fallen asleep against him, slumped over his chest, head lolling to the side. Gingerly, Peter stood up, carrying Stiles to the bed and tucking him in, sitting next to him and studying his face.

The shadows highlighted the gaunt aspects of his small stature, and the toll Scotts death had taken on him. Peter let out a huff and took in the softness of his features that only showed themselves when he was asleep, his face vulnerable and calm.

Getting up, Peter sat in the desk chair finding a book and plugging in his headphones, content to sit with his mate until he woke up. As the shadows lengthened and Peter finished his book, Stiles hadn't woken up, but Peter was unsurprised. He hadn't been sleeping well, his night terrors were back. Peter climbed into the bed next to him, hugging the Werau who snuggled closer in his sleep.

Waking slowly, Stiles blinked hazily, enjoying the warm embrace of his mate. His eyes shoot open, and he looks at the clock. The funeral began half an hour ago. With a sinking feeling gathering in his chest, he calculated the likelihood that he could get there in time to be there for the tail end of it. Shifting slowly from his position, he kisses the bridge of Peters' nose, smiling as he wrinkles his eyebrows, opening confused eyes.

"Did I miss something?" He murmurs, pulling Stiles in for a hug. Stiles hums appreciatively as he hugs the Were, then shakes his head.

"Nope, but I'm going to see if I can...catch the last few minutes of the funeral," Stiles mumbles, eyes downcast.

Peter stares, then catches himself and nods encouragingly. He hugs him soundlessly and leaves him with a final kiss, watching as his mate traipses through the muddy aftermath of the rain underneath the window. He hunches over himself, red hoodie wrapped tightly around his small frame. The sky is moody above him, but at least doesn't threaten to overflow just yet, so far satiated with the earlier downpour.

Trudging through the sloughs of mud, Stiles shivered, wrapping his hoody further around him in an attempt to shield himself from the cold and lingering damp. The water seeped into his shoes, and he huffed, breath coming out in icy clouds. Holding his hand out, he managed to summon a small flame, drawing power from the surrounding forest to help heat himself. Cupping it close to his face, he hurries onwards, not wanting to lose the light. Or the funeral.

Twenty minutes later, he slows, kneeling down on the rough, damp ground of the forest to place a hand on the dirt. Closing his eyes, he breathes deeply, seeing the pack pass the trees a good twenty minutes away. Heart thudding, he stands up, dusting off his hands worriedly, and quickening his pace.

Passing the trees, he hears their whispers and drags a hand across their trunks as he stumbles past, a wordless thanks for their help. The forest was alive, every single part of it, but most didn't see a fraction of the life living there. The heart, the Nemeton, the lungs, the trees that winded throughout, overgrown with vines and wilder creatures than the human mind could ever conjure up. The ethereal beauty was something Stiles would miss greatly, but he could find more, if not better beauty without the danger of the Hale pack! They were an abundance of shadows leeching all positivity out of Beacon Hills, and Stiles wanted to leave before the oncoming storm broke.

Wiping the screen of his phone free from the rain, Stiles noted he'd been walking for fifteen minutes, and hastily put a muting spell over himself, rendering the sound of his heartbeat null behind the shield. He could move to and from without being heard. Cursing his three AM brain, he wished he remembered the exact way to blank both his visibility and sound, but for now, being rid of the annoyances of sound would work just how he needed it to.

Approaching the sight of the grave, Stiles' breath caught, his feet stuttering to a stop as he stands behind a sheltering tree, the bark a rough, reassuring reminder that the wildlife in the forest would take care of the additional body in its soil.

Staring around the branches, he watches as the old pack hunch over the grave in silence, accompanied by Melissa, who was only just holding onto her stony facade, and John, with his arm held tightly around her. Letting out a shuddering breath, Stiles let himself lean against the tree, watching Melissa disentangle herself from John, and walk slowly to the front of the gaggle of wolves and humans. She cleared her throat, eyes troubled, and Stiles hid further behind her trees, in an effort to stay hidden from her prying eyes.

The rain had returned, blanketing the clearing in a fog of silence as Melissa spoke. Stiles focused, honing his hearing in on her. Her speech was drowned out by the steadying hum of the forest, and Stiles began to think the forest had not taken a liking to the McCalls.

The huddle of people said their goodbyes, not lingering long as they cowered against both the rain and the pressure brought on from the grave, and the ceremony. A pale boy watched from the safety of a tree, unsure as to whether the people were at all bothered by the death of his friend. Finally, they left, trudging wordlessly away towards the town, leaving the clearing one by one, until only the gentle swaying of the trees remained.

Stepping forward, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets and stared at the dirt mound, struggling to accept that the formerly live boy was buried under there, charred and destroyed, a product of his mistakes. Karma really was a bitch.

Taking one steady breath. Stiles nodded slowly, a sense of acceptance settling in his stomach. The wind whistled, its cold fingers caressing his bony cheek and chilling him to the core.

Turning away, the boy returned home, to pack up his life in Beacon Hills, to start anew.


	31. The Epilogue

Rifling through the papers littered across the table, leaning back in my chair and enjoying the relaxed atmosphere of the library. There really wasn't a better place to study across the entirety of the city, and Edie Jones was NOT one to lie when it came to such serious matters.

"It compliments your eyes, my sweetest peach."

I look up, hearing two voices sifting from down the hall, heading towards me, raising my eyebrows, I grin, wondering about the individual, and how he managed to come up with such...creative nicknames.

"My eyes are brown, this atrocity is...purple." Another voice replies, I internally snort at the distaste.

I watch as two middle-aged men come round the corner, the shorter one wielding a garish, fluffy purple jumper excitedly in the face of a sighing, taller man, evidently, he was the sweetest peach. They sit a few tables away from me, and the taller man opens a laptop, the younger one setting a heap of old books onto the table with a thump. I snort as he brings out a similarly garish jumper, this one bright red, with a dancing image of Princess Leia on the front, doused in fairy lights. He glances my way, and I shoot my head down, blushing. People watching isn't my strongest forte.

I fiddle with a pencil, unable to focus on another second of my chem homework, content to listen in on the antics of the couple.

"Your...other eyes, my cornucopia of joy!" The man exclaims, and I frown, confused. Other eyes? Is it a sex thing? It can't be a sex thing...

The other man snorts as the librarian glares at his partner, who gives her an apologetic smile, sitting straighter in his seat.

"Stiles, I fail to see how I can wear that when I'm...in that situation." He replies carefully, shaking his head and smirking.

Oh god, it's a sex thing, isn't it?

The other man, Stiles? He huffs, slumping in his seat with the purple jumper bunched in his arms. I languidly flip through my chem book, pretending to do the studying I really should be doing.

"Touché, but Peter, imagine Penny's face when we show up to a formal event in jumpers!" He says excitedly, gesturing wildly along with his words. "She'll kill us." He adds cheerfully, satisfied smile on his face. Why does he sound so happy about that? People are so confusing.

The sweetest peach, or Peter, chuckles, obviously debating the thought. "True," He says slowly, "But is it worth it?" He ponders, and Stiles nodded enthusiastically.

"Payback for when she died my hair red! The joke was on here, though, it looked pretty good." The man said smugly, and I snicker, imagining him with a fiery red updo. In my opinion, it sounds terrific.

"But you could turn it back to brown at any time!" Peter said exasperatedly, and I once again question their sanity. Turn it back? I repeat...people are so confusing.

"And we can take the jumpers off after she's suffered!" Stiles replies swiftly, leaning into Peters side, imploring eyes going big. "Pleeeaseeeeeeeeeee-"

"Fine." Peter gripes, a grin on his face. "Don't say I didn't warn you though."

Stiles does a victorious fist pump, dropping the purple jumper in the process, and I let out an incredulous laugh as I see the figure on the front of the jumper, Han Solo, equally as festive as the figure of Leia on the other jumper. He looks over at me, a smile on his face, and I cover my mouth, still laughing quietly.

He shrugs and laughs, ignoring the murderous librarian's glare, turning back to his partner. "See! I'm not the only one who likes them!" He says triumphantly, nudging Peter, who snorts, shaking his head.

I settle back into my seat, equal parts mortified and amused by being spotted listening in on their conversation. As I leaf through my book, I spot the librarian winding her way through the tables in pursuit of the couple. I watch her ask them to leave and internally frown. The two were adorable, and sadly my only form of entertainment on this great day of procrastination. I smile and duck my head as Stiles, still, a strange name, waves happily at me, picking up the pile of books and the purple jumper, and takes his leave, swiftly followed by Peter.

This was by far, the most eventful day at the library in a while.


End file.
